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"  He  looked  at  her  long  and  sadly."— Vol.  I.,  p.  239. 


CASA    BRACCIO 


BY 

F.   MARION   CRAWFOKD 

AUTHOR  or  "  SAKACINBSCA,"  "  PIETRO  GHISLERI,"  ETC. 


IN  TWO  VOLUMES 
VOL.    I. 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY  A.    CASTAIGNE 


ffork 
MACMILLAN    AND    CO. 

AND    LONDON 

1895 

All  rights  reserved 


OoprKiOHT,  1894, 
BY  F.  MARION  CRAWFORD. 


Nortoooli  $«88 

J.  S.  Gushing  &  Co.  -  Berwick  &  Smith 
Norwood  Man.  U.S.A. 


THIS   STORY,    BEING   MY   TWENTY-FIFTH   NOVEL, 

IS   AFFECTIONATELY   DEDICATED   TO 

MY  WIFE 

SOKRENTO,    1895 


CONTENTS. 


PART   I. 
SISTER  MARIA  ADDOLORATA  .     .     . 


PART    II. 
GLORIA  DALRTMPLE 226 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS. 

VOL.  I. 

PAGE 

Nanna  and  Annetta  . 16 

Maria  Addolorata      .        .        .        .        .        .        .  •     .    25 

'' Sor  Tommaso  was  lying  motionless ''    .        .        .        .78 

"  She  had  covered  her  face  with  the  veil  "  ,        .  126 

"  An  evil  death  on  you !" 218 

"  He  looked  at  her  long  and  sadly  "        .        .        .        .  239 
"  Fire  and  sleet  and  candle-light ; 

And  Christ  receive  thy  soul  " 324 


PART  I. 

SISTER  MARIA  ADD OL GRATA. 


VOL.   I.  — B 


CASA  BRACCIO. 

PART  I. 

SISTER  MARIA  ADDOLORATA. 

CHAPTER  I. 

SUBIACO  lies  beyond  Tivoli,  southeast  from 
Rome,  at  the  upper  end  of  a  wild  gorge  in  the 
Samnite  mountains.  It  is  an  archbishopric,  and 
gives  a  title  to  a  cardinal,  which  alone  would  make 
it  a  town  of  importance.  It  shares  with  Monte 
Cassino  the  honour  of  having  been  chosen  by  Saint 
Benedict  and  Saint  Scholastica,  his  sister,  as  the 
site  of  a  monastery  and  a  convent ;  and  in  a  cell  in 
the  rock  a  portrait  of  the  holy  man  is  still  well 
preserved,  which  is  believed,  not  without  reason,  to 
have  been  painted  from  life,  although  Saint  Bene 
dict  died  early  in  the  fifth  century.  The  town 
itself  rises  abruptly  to  a  great  height  upon  a  mass 
of  rock,  almost  conical  in  shape,  crowned  by  the 
cardinal's  palace,  and  surrounded  on  three  sides  by 
3 


4  CAS  A   BRACCIO. 

rugged  mountains.  On  the  third,  it  looks  down 
the  rapidly  widening  valley  in  the  direction  of 
Vicovaro,  near  which  the  Licenza  runs  into  the 
Anio,  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Horace's  farm.  It 
is  a  very  ancient  town,  and  in  its  general  appear 
ance  it  does  not  differ  very  much  from  many  simi 
lar  ones  amongst  the  Italian  mountains ;  but  its 
position  is  exceptionally  good,  and  its  importance 
has  been  stamped  upon  it  by  the  hands  of  those 
who  have  thought  it  worth  holding  since  the  days  of 
ancient  Rome.  Of  late  it  has,  of  course,  acquired 
a  certain  modernness  of  aspect;  it  has  planted 
acacia  trees  in  its  little  piazza,  and  it  has  a  gor 
geously  arrayed  municipal  band.  But  from  a  little 
distance  one  neither  hears  the  band  nor  sees  the 
trees,  the  grim  mediaeval  fortifications  frown  upon 
the  valley,  and  the  time-stained  dwellings,  great 
and  small,  rise  in  rugged  irregularity  against  the 
lighter  brown  of  the  rocky  background  and  the 
green  of  scattered  olive  groves  and  chestnuts. 
Those  features,  at  least,  have  not  changed,  and 
show  no  disposition  to  change  during  generations 
to  come. 

In  the  year  1844,  modern  civilization  had  not 
yet  set  in,  and  Subiaco  was,  within,  what  it  still 
appears  to  be  from  without,  a  somewhat  gloomy 
stronghold  of  the  Middle  Ages,  rearing  its  battle 
ments  and  towers  in  a  shadowy  gorge,  above  a 
mountain  torrent,  inhabited  by  primitive  and  pas- 


CAS  A    BBACCIO.  5 

sionate  people,  dominated  by  ecclesiastical  insti 
tutions,  and,  though  distinctly  Roman,  a  couple  of 
hundred  years  behind  Rome  itself  in  all  matters 
ethic  and  aesthetic.  It  was  still  the  scene  of  the 
Santacroce  murder,  which  really  decided  Beatrice 
Cenci's  fate;  it  was  still  the  gathering  place  of 
highwaymen  and  outlaws,  whose  activity  found 
an  admirable  field  through  all  the  region  of  hill 
and  plain  between  the  Samnite  range  and  the 
sea,  while  the  almost  inaccessible  fortresses  of  the 
higher  mountains,  towards  Trevi  and  the  Serra  di 
Sant'  Antonio,  offered  a  safe  refuge  from  the  half 
hearted  pursuit  of  Pope  Gregory's  lazy  soldiers. 

Something  of  what  one  may  call  the  life-and- 
death  earnestness  of  earlier  times,  when  passion 
was  motive  and  prejudice  was  law,  survived  at 
that  time  and  even  much  later;  the  ferocity  of 
practical  love  and  hatred  dominated  the  theory 
and  practice  of  justice  in  the  public  life  of  the 
smaller  towns,  while  the  patriarchal  system  sub 
jected  the  family  in  almost  absolute  servitude  to 
its  head. 

There  was  nothing  very  surprising  in  the  fact 
that  the  head  of  the  house  of  Braccio  should  have 
obliged  one  of  his  daughters  to  take  the  veil  in  the 
Convent  of  Carmelite  nuns,  just  within  the  gate  of 
Subiaco,  as  his  sister  had  taken  it  many  years 
earlier.  Indeed,  it  was  customary  in  the  family 
of  the  Princes  of  G-erano  that  one  of  the  women 


6  CA8A    B  BAG  CIO. 

should  be  a  Carmelite,  and  it  was  a  tradition  not 
unattended  with  worldly  advantages  to  the  sister 
hood,  that  the  Braccio  nun,  whenever  there  was 
one,  should  be  the  abbess  of  that  particular  con 
vent. 

Maria  Teresa  Braccio  had  therefore  yielded, 
though  very  unwillingly,  to  her  father's  insistence, 
and  having  passed  through  her  novitiate,  had  finally 
taken  the  veil  as  a  Carmelite  of  Subiaco,  in  the 
year  1841,  on  the  distinct  understanding  that  when 
her  aunt  died  she  was  to  be  abbess  in  the  elder 
lady's  stead.  The  abbess  herself  was,  indeed,  in 
excellent  health  and  not  yet  fifty  years  old,  so 
that  Maria  Teresa  —  in  religion  Maria  Addolorata 
—  might  have  a  long  time  to  wait  before  she  was 
promoted  to  an  honour  which  she  regarded  as 
hereditary ;  but  the  prospect  of  such  promotion  was 
almost  her  only  compensation  for  all  she  had  left 
behind  her,  and  she  lived  upon  it  and  concentrated 
her  character  upon  it,  and  practised  the  part  she 
was  to  play,  when  she  was  quite  sure  that  she  was 
not  observed. 

Nature  had  not  made  her  for  a  recluse,  least  of 
all  for  a  nun  of  such  a  rigid  Order  as  the  Carme 
lites.  The  short  taste  of  a  brilliant  social  life 
which  she  had  been  allowed  to  enjoy,  in  accordance 
with  an  ancient  tradition,  before  finally  taking  the 
veil,  had  shown  her  clearly  enough  the  value  of 
what  she  was  to  abandon,  and  at  the  same  time 


CAS  A    BBACCIO.  7 

had  altogether  confirmed  her  father  in  his  decision. 
Compared  with  the  freedom  of  the  present  day,  the 
restrictions  imposed  upon  a  young  girl  in  the 
Roman  society  of  those  times  were,  of  course, 
tyrannical  in  the  extreme,  and  the  average  modern 
young  lady  would  almost  as  willingly  go  into  a 
convent  as  submit  to  them.  But  Maria  Teresa  had 
received  an  impression  which  nothing  could  efface. 
Her  intuitive  nature  had  divined  the  possible  semi- 
emancipation  of  marriage,  and  her  temperament 
had  felt  in  a  certain  degree  the  extremes  of  joyous 
exaltation  and  of  that  entrancing  sadness  which  is 
love's  premonition,  and  which  tells  maidens  what 
love  is  before  they  know  him,  by  making  them 
conscious  of  the  breadth  and  depth  of  his  yet 
vacant  dwelling. 

She  had  learned  in  that  brief  time  that  she  was 
beautiful,  and  she  had  felt  that  she  could  love  and 
that  she  should  be  loved  in  return.  She  had  seen 
the  world  as  a  princess  and  had  felt  it  as  a  woman, 
and  she  had  understood  all  that  she  must  give  up 
in  taking  the  veil.  But  she  had  been  offered  no 
choice,  and  though  she  had  contemplated  opposi 
tion,  she  had  not  dared  to  revolt.  Being  absolutely 
in  the  power  of  her  parents,  so  far  as  she  was  aware, 
she  had  accepted  the  fatality  of  their  will,  and  bent 
her  fair  head  to  be  shorn  of  its  glory  and  her 
broad  forehead  to  be  covered  forever  from  the  gaze 
of  men.  And  having  submitted,  she  had  gone 


8  CAS  A    BRACCIO. 

through  it  all  bravely  and  proudly,  as  perhaps  she 
would  have  gone  through  other  things,  even  to 
death  itself,  being  a  daughter  of  an  old  race,  accus 
tomed  to  deify  honour  and  to  make  its  divinities 
of  tradition.  For  the  rest  of  her  natural  life  she 
was  to  live  on  the  memories  of  one  short,  magnifi 
cent  year,  forever  to  be  contented  with  the  grim 
rigidity  of  conventual  life  in  an  ancient  cloister 
surrounded  by  gloomy  mountains.  She  was  to  be 
a  veiled  shadow  amongst  veiled  shades,  a  priestess 
of  sorrow  amongst  sad  virgins  ;  and  though,  if  she 
lived  long  enough,  she  was  to  be  the  chief  of  them 
and  their  ruler,  her  very  superiority  could  only 
make  her  desolation  more  complete,  until  her  own 
shadow,  like  the  others,  should  be  gathered  into 
eternal  darkness. 

Sister  Maria  Addolorata  had  certain  privileges 
for  which  her  companions  would  have  given  much, 
but  which  were  traditionally  the  right  of  such 
ladies  of  the  Braccio  family  as  took  the  veil.  For 
instance,  she  had  a  cell  which,  though  not  larger 
than  the  other  cells,  was  better  situated,  for  it  had 
Or  little  balcony  looking  over  the  convent  garden, 
and  high  enough  to  afford  a  view  of  the  distant 
valley  and  of  the  hills  which  bounded  it,  beyond 
the  garden  wall.  It  was  entered  by  the  last  door 
in  the  corridor  within,  and  was  near  the  abbess?s 
apartment,  which  was  entered  from  the  corridor, 
through  a  small  antechamber  which  also  gave 


CA8A   BBACCIO.  9 

access  to  the  vast  lineii-presses.  The  balcony,  too, 
had  a  little  staircase  leading  down  into  the  gar 
den.  It  had  always  been  the  custom  to  carry  the 
linen  to  and  from  the  laundry  through  Maria 
Addolorata's  cell,  and  through  a  postern  gate  in 
the  garden  wall,  the  washing  being  done  in  the 
town.  By  this  plan,  the  annoyance  was  avoided 
of  carrying  the  huge  baskets  through  the  whole 
length  of  the  convent,  to  and  from  the  main  en 
trance,  which  was  also  much  further  removed  from 
the  house  of  Sora  Nanna,  the  chief  laundress. 
Moreover,  Maria  Addolorata  had  charge  of  all  the 
convent  linen,  and  the  employment  thus  afforded 
her  was  an  undoubted  privilege  in  itself,  for  occu 
pation  of  any  kind  not  devotional  was  excessively 
scarce  in  such  an  existence. 

In  the  eyes  of  the  other  nuns,  the  constant 
society  of  the  abbess  herself  was  also  a  privilege, 
and  one  not  by  any  means  to  be  despised.  After 
all,  the  abbess  and  her  niece  were  nearly  related, 
they  could  talk  of  the  affairs  of  their  family,  and 
the  abbess  doubtless  received  many  letters  from 
Rome  containing  all  the  interesting  news  of  the 
day,  and  all  the  social  gossip  —  perfectly  innocent, 
of  course  —  which  was  the  chronicle  of  Roman 
life.  These  were  valuable  compensations,  and  the 
nuns  envied  them.  The  abbess,  too,  saw  her 
brother,  the  archbishop  and  titular  cardinal  of 
Subiaco,  when  the  princely  prelate  came  out  from 


10  CAS  A    BRACCIO. 

Rome  for  the  coolness  of  the  mountains  in  August 
and  September,  and  his  conversation  was  said  to 
be  not  only  edifying,  but  fascinating.  The  cardinal 
was  a  very  good  man,  like  many  of  the  Braccio 
family,  but  he  was  also  a  man  of  the  world,  who 
had  been  sent  upon  foreign  missions  of  importance, 
and  had  acquired  some  worldly  fame  as  well  as 
much  ecclesiastical  dignity  in  the  course  of  his 
long  life.  It  must  be  delightful,  the  nuns  thought, 
to  be  his  own  sister,  to  receive  long  visits  from 
him,  and  to  hear  all  he  had  to  say  about  the  busy 
world  of  Home.  To  most  of  them,  everything 
beyond  Home  was  outer  darkness. 

But  though  the  nuns  envied  the  abbess  and 
Maria  Addolorata,  they  did  not  venture  to  say  so, 
and  they  hardly  dared  to  think  so,  even  when  they 
were  all  alone,  each  in  her  cell ;  for  the  concentra 
tion  of  conventual  life  magnifies  small  spiritual 
sins  in  the  absence  of  anything  really  sinful,  and 
to  admit  that  she  even  faintly  wishes  she  might 
be  some  one  else  is  to  tarnish  the  brightness  of 
the  nun's  scrupulously  polished  conscience.  It 
would  be  as  great  a  misdeed,  perhaps,  as  to  allow 
the  attention  to  wander  to  worldly  matters  during 
times  of  especial  devotion.  Nevertheless,  the  envy 
showed  itself,  very  perceptibly  and  much  against 
the  will  of  the  sisters  themselves,  in  a  certain  cold 
deference  of  manner  towards  the  young  and  beau 
tiful  nun  who  was  one  day  to  be  the  superior  of 


CASA    BKACCIO.  11 

them  all  by  force  of  circumstances  for  which  she 
deserved  no  credit.  She  had  the  position  among 
them,  and  something  of  the  isolation,  of  a  young 
royal  princess  amongst  the  ladies  of  her  queen 
mother's  court. 

There  was  about  her,  too,  an  unde finable  some 
thing,  like  the  shadow  of  future  fate,  a  something 
almost  impossible  to  describe,  and  yet  distinctly 
appreciable  to  all  who  saw  her  and  lived  with  her. 
It  came  upon  her  especially  when  she  was  silent 
and  abstracted,  when  she  was  kneeling  in  her 
place  in  the  choir,  or  was  alone  upon  her  little  bal 
cony  over  the  garden.  At  such  times  a  luminous 
pallor  gradually  took  the  place  of  her  fresh  and 
healthy  complexion,  her  eyes  grew  unnaturally 
dark,  with  a  deep,  fixed  fire  in  them,  and  the 
regular  features  took  upon  them  the  white,  set 
straightness  of  a  death  mask.  Sometimes,  at  such 
moments,  a  shiver  ran  through  her,  even  in  summer, 
and  she  drew  her  breath  sharply  once  or  twice,  as 
though  she  were  hurt.  The  expression  was  not 
one  of  suffering  or  pain,  but  was  rather  that  of  a 
person  conscious  of  some  great  danger  which  must 
be  met  without  fear  or  flinching. 

She  would  have  found  it  very  hard  to  explain 
what  she  felt  just  then.  She  might  have  said  that 
it  was  a  consciousness  of  something  unknown. 
She  could  not  have  said  more  than  that.  It 
brought  no  vision  with  it,  beatific  or  horrifying; 


12  CA8A    BBACCIO. 

it  was  not  the  consequence  of  methodical  contem 
plation,  as  the  trance  state  is ;  and  it  was  followed 
by  no  reaction  nor  sense  of  uneasiness.  It  simply 
came  and  went  as  the  dark  shadow  of  a  thunder 
cloud  passing  between  her  and  the  sun,  and  leaving 
no  trace  behind. 

There  was  nothing  to  account  for  it,  unless  it 
could  be  explained  by  heredity,  and  no  one  had 
ever  suggested  any  such  explanation  to  Maria. 
It  was  true  that  there  had  been  more  than  one 
tragedy  in  the  Braccio  family  since  they  had  first 
lifted  their  heads  above  the  level  of  their  con 
temporaries  to  become  Roman  Barons,  in  the  old 
days  before  such  titles  as  prince  and  duke  had 
come  into  use.  But  then,  most  of  the  old  families 
could  tell  of  deeds  as  cruel  and  lives  as  passionate 
as  any  remembered  by  Maria's  race,  and  Italians, 
though  superstitious  in  unexpected  ways,  have 
little  of  that  belief  in  hereditary  fate  which  is 
common  enough  in  the  gloomy  north. 

"Was  Sister  Maria  Addolorata  a  great  sinner, 
before  she  became  a  nun?"  asked  Annetta,  Sora 
Nanna's  daughter,  of  her  mother,  one  day,  as  they 
came  away  from  the  convent. 

"What  are  you  saying!"  exclaimed  the  washer 
woman,  in  a  tone  of  rebuke.  "  She  is  a  great  lady, 
and  the  niece  of  the  abbess  and  of  the  cardinal. 
Sometimes  certain  ideas  pass  through  your  head, 
ray  daughter !" 


CASA   BBACCIO.  13 

And  Sora  Nanna  gesticulated,  unable  to  express 
herself. 

"  Then  she  sins  in  her  throat,"  observed  Anuetta, 
calmly.  "But  you  do  not  even  look  at  her  —  so 
many  sheets  —  so  many  pillow-cases  —  and  good 
day !  But  while  you  count,  I  look." 

"  Why  should  I  look  at  her  ?  "  inquired  Nanna, 
shifting  the  big  empty  basket  she  carried  on  her 
head,  hitching  her  broad  shoulders  and  wrinkling 
her  leathery  forehead,  as  her  small  eyes  turned 
upward.  "Do  you  take  me  for  a  man,  that  I 
should  make  eyes  at  a  nun  ?  " 

"And  I?  Am  I  a  man?  And  yet  I  look  at 
her.  I  see  nothing  but  her  face  when  we  are 
there,  and  afterwards  I  think  about  it.  What 
harm  is  there?  She  sins  in  her  throat.  I  know 
it." 

Sora  Nanna  hitched  her  shoulders  impatiently 
again,  and  said  nothing.  The  two  women  de 
scended  through  the  steep  and  narrow  street, 
slippery  and  wet  with  slimy,  coal  black  mud  that 
glittered  on  the  rough  cobble-stones.  Kanua 
walked  first,  and  Annetta  followed  close  behind 
her,  keeping  step,  and  setting  her  feet  exactly 
where  her  mother  had  trod,  with  the  instinctive 
certainty  of  the  born  mountaineer.  With  heads 
erect  and  shoulders  square,  each  with  one  hand  on 
her  hip  and  the  other  hanging  down,  they  carried 
their  burdens  swiftly  and  safely,  with  a  swinging, 


14  CAS  A    BBACCIO, 

undulating  gait  as  though  it  were  a  pleasure  to 
them  to  move,  and  would  require  an  effort  to  stop 
rather  than  to  walk  on  forever.  They  wore  shoes 
because  they  were  well-to-do  people,  and  chose  to 
show  that  they  were  when  they  went  up  to  the 
convent.  But  for  the  rest  they  were  clad  in  the 
costume  of  the  neighbourhood,  —  the  coarse  white 
shift,  close  at  the  throat,  the  scarlet  bodice,  the 
short,  dark,  gathered  skirt,  and  the  dark  blue 
carpet  apron,  with  flowers  woven  on  a  white  stripe 
across  the  lower  end.  Both  wore  heavy  gold  ear 
rings,  and  Sora  Xanna  had  eight  or  ten  strings  of 
large  coral  beads  around  her  throat. 

Annetta  was  barely  fifteen  years  old,  brown, 
slim,  and  active  as  a  lizard.  She  was  one  of  those 
utterly  unruly  and  untamable  girls  of  whom  there 
are  two  or  three  in  every  Italian  village,  in  moun 
tain  or  plain,  a  creature  in  whom  a  living  conscious 
ness  of  living  nature  took  the  place  of  thought,  and 
with  whom  to  be  conscious  was  to  speak,  without 
reason  or  hesitation.  The  small,  keen,  black  eyes 
were  set  under  immense  and  arched  black  eye 
brows  which  made  the  eyes  themselves  seem  larger 
than  they  were,  and  the  projecting  temples  cast 
shadows  to  the  cheek  which  hid  the  rudimentary 
modelling  of  the  coarse  lower  lids.  The  ears  were 
flat  and  ill-developed,  but  close  to  the  head  and 
not  large ;  the  teeth  very  short,  though  perfectly 
regular  and  exceedingly  white ;  the  lips  long,  mo- 


- 


Nanna  and  Annetta. — Vol.  I.,  p.  15. 


CASA    BRACCIO.  15 

bile,  brown  rather  than  red,  and  generally  parted 
like  those  of  a  wild  animal.  The  girl's  smoothly 
sinewy  throat  moved  with  every  step,  showing  the 
quick  play  of  the  elastic  cords  and  muscles.  Her 
blue-black  hair  was  plaited,  though  far  from  neatly, 
and  the  braids  were  twisted  into  an  irregular  flat 
coil,  generally  hidden  by  the  flap  of  the  white  em 
broidered  cloth  cross-folded  upon  her  head  and 
hanging  down  behind. 

For  some  minutes  the  mother  and  daughter  con 
tinued  to  pick  their  way  down  the  winding  lanes 
between  the  dark  houses  of  the  upper  village.  Then 
Sora  Nanna  put  out  her  right  hand  as  a  signal  to 
Annetta  that  she  meant  to  stop,  and  she  stood  still 
on  the  steep  descent  and  turned  deliberately  till 
she  could  see  the  girl. 

"  What  are  you  saying  ?  "  she  began,  as  though 
there  had  been  no  pause  in  the  conversation. 
"  That  Sister  Maria  Addolorata  sins  in  her  throat ! 
But  how  can  she  sin  in  her  throat,  since  she  sees 
no  man  but  the  gardener  and  the  priest  ?  Indeed, 
you  say  foolish  things  ! " 

"And  what  has  that  to  do  with  it?"  inquired 
Annetta.  "  She  must  have  seen  enough  of  men  in 
Rome,  every  one  of  them  a  great  lord.  And  who 
tells  you  that  she  did  not  love  one  of  them  and 
does  not  wish  that  she  were  married  to  him?  And 
if  that  is  not  a  sin  in  the  throat,  I  do  not  know 
what  to  say.  There  is  my  answer." 


16  CA8A    BRACCIO. 

'-   "  You  say  foolish  things,"  repeated,  Sora  .Nanna. 

Then  she  turned  deliberately  away  and  began  to 
descend  once  more,  with  an  occasional  dissatisfied 
movement  of  the  shoulders. 

"For  the  rest,"  observed  Annetta,  "it  is  not  my 
business.  I  would  rather  look  at  the  Englishman 
when  he  is  eating  meat  than  at  Sister  Maria  when 
she  is  counting  clothes !  I  do  not  know  whether 
he  is  a  wolf  or  a  man." 

"  Eh !  The  Englishman ! "  exclaimed  Sora  Nanna. 
"You  will  look  so  much  at  the  Englishman  that 
you  will  make  blood  with  Gigetto,  who  wishes  you 
well,  and  when  Gigetto  has  waited  for  the  English 
man  at  the  corner  of  the  forest,  what  shall  we  all 
have  ?  The  galleys.  What  do  you  see  in  the 
Englishman?  He  has  red  hair  and  long,  long 
teeth.  Yes  —  just  like  a  wolf.  You  are  right. 
And  if  he  pays  for  meat,  why  should  he  not  eat 
it  ?  If  he  did  not  pay,  it  would  be  different.  It 
would  soon  be  finished.  Heaven  send  us  a  little 
money  without  any  Englishman !  Besides,  Gigetto 
said  the  other  day  that  he  would  wait  for  him  at 
the  corner  of  the  forest.  And  Gigetto,  when  he 
says  a  thing,  he  does  it." 

"  And  why  should  we  go  to  the  galleys  if  Gigetto 
waits  for  the  Englishman  ?  "  inquired  Annetta. 

"Silly!"  cried  the  older  woman.  "Because 
Gigetto  would  take  your  father's  gun,  since  he  has 
none  of  his  own.  That  would  be  enough.  We 
should  have  done  it ! " 


CAS  A    EEACCIO.  17 

Annetta  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  said  nothing. 

"  But  take  care,"  continued  Sora  Nanna.  "  Your 
father  sleeps  with  one  eye  open.  He  sees  you,  and 
he  sees  also  the  Englishman  every  day.  He  says 
nothing,  because  he  is  good.  But  he  has  a  fist  like 
a  paving-stone.  I  tell  you  nothing  more." 

They  reached  Sora  Nanna's  house  and  disap 
peared  under  the  dark  archway.  For  Sora  Kauna 
and  Stefanone,  her  husband,  were  rich  people  for 
their  station,  and  their  house  was  large  and  was 
built  with  an  arch  wide  enough  and  high  enough 
for  a  loaded  beast  of  burden  to  pass  through  with 
a  man  on  its  back.  And,  within,  everything  was 
clean  and  well  kept,  excepting  all  that  belonged  to 
Annetta.  There  were  airy  upper  rooms,  with  well- 
swept  floors  of  red  brick  or  of  beaten  cement,  fur 
nished  with  high  beds  on  iron  trestles,  and  wooden 
stools  of  well-worn  brown  oak,  and  tables  painted 
a  vivid  green,  and  primitive  lithographs  of  Saint 
Benedict  and  Santa  Scholastica  and  the  Addolorata. 
And  there  were  lofts  in  which  the  rich  autumn 
grapes  were  hung  up  to  dry  on  strings,  and  where 
chestnuts  lay  in  heaps,  and  figs  were  spread  in 
symmetrical  order  on  great  sheets  of  the  coarse 
grey  paper  made  in  Subiaco.  There  were  apples, 
too,  though  poor  ones,  and  there  were  bins  of  maize 
and  wheat,  waiting  to  be  picked  over  before  being 
ground  in  the  primeval  household  mill.  And  there 
were  hams  and  sides  of  bacon,  and  red  peppers,  and 

VOL.    I.  C 


18  CAS  A   BE  AC  CIO. 

bundles  of  dried  herbs,  and  great  mountain  cheeses 
on  shelves.  There  Avas  also  a  guest  room,  better 
than  the  rest,  which  Stefanone  and  his  wife  occa 
sionally  let  to  respectable  travellers  or  to  the  mer 
chants  who  came  from  Koine  on  business  to  stay 
a  few  days  in  Subiaco.  At  the  present  time  the 
room  was  rented  by  the  Englishman  concerning 
whom  the  discussion  had  arisen  between  Annetta 
and  her  mother. 

Angus  Dalrymple,  M.D.,  was  not  an  Englishman, 
as  he  had  tried  to  explain  to  Sora  Nanna,  though 
without  the  least  success.  He  was,  as  his  name 
proclaimed,  a  Scotchman  of  the  Scotch,  and  a 
doctor  of  medicine.  It  was  true  that  he  had  red 
hair,  and  an  abundance  of  it,  and  long  white  teeth, 
but  Sora  Nanna's  description  was  otherwise  libel- 
lously  incomplete  and  wholly  omitted  all  mention 
of  the  good  points  in  his  appearance.  In  the  first 
place,  he  possessed  the  characteristic  national  build 
in  a  superior  degree  of  development,  with  all  the 
lean,  bony  energy  which  has  done  so  much  hard 
work  in  the  world.  He  was  broad-shouldered, 
long-armed,  long-legged,  deep-chested,  and  straight, 
with  sinewy  hands  and  singularly  well-shaped  fin 
gers.  His  healthy  skin  had  that  mottled  look 
produced  by  countless  freckles  upon  an  almost 
childlike  complexion.  The  large,  grave  mouth 
generally  concealed  the  long  teeth  objected  to  by 
Sora  Nanna,  and  the  lips,  though  even  and  narrow, 


CAS  A   BRAG  CIO.  19 

were  strong  rather  than  thin,  and  their  rare  smile 
was  both  genial  and  gentle.  There  were  lines  — 
as  yet  very  faint  —  about  the  corners  of  the  mouth, 
which  told  of  a  nervous  and  passionate  disposition 
and  of  the  strong  Scotch  temper,  as  well  as  of  a 
certain  sensitiveness  which  belongs  especially  to 
northern  races.  The  pale  but  very  bright  blue  eyes 
under  shaggy  auburn  brows  were  fiery  with  courage 
and  keen  with  shrewd  enterprise.  Dalrymple  was 
assuredly  not  a  man  to  be  despised  under  any  cir 
cumstances,  intellectually  or  physically. 

His  presence  in  such  a  place  as  Subiaco,  at  a 
time  when  hardly  any  foreigners  except  painters 
visited  the  place,  requires  some  explanation ;  for 
he  was  not  an  artist,  but  a  doctor,  and  had  never 
been  even  tempted  to  amuse  himself  with  sketch 
ing.  In  the  first  place,  he  was  a  younger  son  of 
a  good  family,  and  received  a  moderate  allowance, 
quite  sufficient  in  those  days  to  allow  him  con 
siderable  latitude  of  expenditure  in  old-fashioned 
Italy.  Secondly,  he  had  entirely  refused  to  follow 
any  of  the  professions  known  as  'liberal.'  He 
had  no  taste  for  the  law,  and  he  had  not  the 
companionable  character  which  alone  can  make 
life  in  the  army  pleasant  in  time  of  peace.  His 
beliefs,  or  his  lack  of  belief,  together  with  an 
honourable  conscience,  made  him  naturally  opposed 
to  all  churches.  On  the  other  hand,  he  had  been 
attracted  almost  from  his  childhood  by  scientific 


20  CAS  A   BRACCIO. 

subjects,  at  a  period  when  the  discoveries  of  the 
last  fifty  years  appeared  as  misty  but  beatific 
visions  to  men  of  science.  To  the  disappointment 
and,  to  some  extent,  to  the  humiliation  of  his 
family,  he  insisted  upon  studying  medicine,  at  the 
University  of  St.  Andrew's,  as  soon  as  he  had 
obtained  his  ordinary  degree  at  Cambridge.  And 
having  once  insisted,  nothing  could  turn  him  from 
his  purpose,  for  he  possessed  English  tenacity 
grafted  upon  Scotch  originality,  with  a  good  deal 
of  the  strength  of  both  races. 

While  still  a  student  he  had  once  made  a  tour 
in  Italy,  and  like  many  northerners  had  fallen 
under  the  mysterious  spell  of  the  South  from  the 
very  first.  Having  a  sufficient  allowance  for  all 
his  needs,  as  has  been  said,  and  being  attracted  by 
the  purely  scientific  side  of  his  profession  rather 
than  by  any  desire  to  become  a  successful  prac 
titioner,  it  was  natural  enough  that  on  finding 
himself  free  to  go  whither  he  pleased  in  pursuit 
of  knowledge,  he  should  have  visited  Italy  again. 
A  third  visit  had  convinced  him  that  he  should  do 
well  to  spend  some  years  in  the  country;  for  by 
that  time  he  had  become  deeply  interested  in  the 
study  of  malarious  fevers,  which  in  those  days 
were  completely  misunderstood.  It  would  be  far 
too  much  to  say  that  young  Dalrymple  had  at  that 
time  _  formed  any  complete  theory  in  regard  to 
malaria ;  but  his  naturally  lonely  and  concentrated 


CAS  A    BRACCIO.  21 

intellect  had  contemptuously  discarded  all  ex 
planations  of  malarious  phenomena,  and,  com 
municating  his  own  ideas  to  no  one,  until  he 
should  be  in  possession  of  proofs  for  his  opinions, 
he  had  in  reality  got  hold  of  the  beginning  of 
the  truth  about  germs  which  has  since  then  revo 
lutionized  medicine. 

The  only  object  of  this  short  digression  has  been 
to  show  that  Angus  Dalrymple  was  not  a  careless 
idler  and  tourist  in  Italy,  only  half  responsible 
for  what  he  did,  and  not  at  all  for  what  he 
thought.  On  the  contrary,  he  was  a  man  of  very 
unusual  gifts,  of  superior  education,  and  of  rare 
enterprise ;  a  strong,  silent,  thoughtful  man,  about 
eight-and-twenty  years  of  age,  and  just  beginning 
to  feel  his  power  as  something  greater  than  he 
had  suspected,  when  he  came  to  spend  the  autumn 
months  in  Subiaco,  and  hired  Sora  Nanna's  guest 
room,  with  a  little  room  leading  off  it,  which  he 
kept  locked,  and  in  which  he  had  a  table,  a  chair, 
a  microscope,  some  books,  a  few  chemicals  and 
some  simple  apparatus. 

His  presence  had  at  first  roused  certain  jealous 
misgivings  in  the  heart  of  the  town  physician,  Sor 
Tommaso  Taddei,  commonly  spoken  of  simply  as 
'the  Doctor,'  because  there  was  no  other.  But 
Dalrymple  was  not  without  tact  and  knowledge 
of  human  nature.  He  explained  that  he  came  as 
a  foreigner  to  learn  from  native  physicians  how 


22  CASA    BRACCIO. 

malarious  fevers  were  treated  in  Italy;  and  he 
listened  with  patient  intelligence  to  Sor  Tomma- 
so's  antiquated  theories,  and  silently  watched  his 
still  more  antiquated  practice.  And  Sor  Tommaso, 
like  all  people  who  think  that  they  know  a  vast 
deal,  highly  approved  of  Dalrymple's  submissive 
silence,  and  said  that  the  young  man  was  a 
marvel  of  modesty,  and  that  if  he  could  stay 
about  ten  years  in  Subiaco  and  learn  something 
from  Sor  Tommaso  himself,  he  might  really  some 
day  be  a  fairly  good  doctor,  —  which  were  extraor 
dinarily  liberal  admissions  on  the  part  of  the 
old  practitioner,  and  contributed  largely  towards 
reassuring  Stefanone  concerning  his  lodger's 
character. 

For  Stefanone  and  his  wife  had  their  doubts  and 
suspicions.  Of  course  they  knew  that  all  foreigners 
except  Frenchmen  and  Austrians  were  Protestants, 
and  ate  meat  on  fast  days,  and  were  under  the  most 
especial  protection  of  the  devil,  who  fattened  them 
in  this  world  that  they  might  burn  the  better  in  the 
next.  But  Stefanone  had  never  seen  the  real  for 
eigner  at  close  quarters,  and  had  not  conceived  it  pos 
sible  that  any  living  human  being  could  devour  so 
much  half-cooked  flesh  in  a  day  as  Dalrymple  de 
sired  for  his  daily  portion,  paid  for,  and  consumed. 
Moreover,  there  was  no  man  in  Subiaco  who  could 
and  did  swallow  such  portentous  draughts  of  the 
strong  mountain  wine,  without  suffering  any  ap- 


CASA   BEACCIO.  23 

parent  effects  from  his  potations.  Furthermore, 
also,  Dalrymple  did  strange  things  by  day  and 
night  in  the  small  laboratory  he  had  arranged 
next  to  his  bedroom,  and  unholy  and  evil  smells 
issued  at  times  through  the  cracks  of  the  door,  and 
penetrated  from  the  bedroom  to  the  stairs  outside, 
and  were  distinctly  perceptible  all  over  the  house. 
Therefore  Stefanone  maintained  for  a  long  time 
that  his  lodger  was  in  league  with  the  powers  of 
darkness,  and  that  it  was  not  safe  to  keep  him 
in  the  house,  though  he  paid  his  bill  so  very 
regularly,  every  Saturday,  and  never  quarrelled 
about  the  price  of  his  food  and  drink.  On  the 
whole,  however,  Stefanone  abstained  from  inter 
fering,  as  he  had  at  first  been  inclined  to  do,  and 
entering  the  laboratory,  with  the  support  of  the 
parish  priest,  a  basin  of  holy  water,  and  a  loaded 
gun  —  all  three  of  which  he  considered  necessary 
for  an  exorcism ;  and  little  by  little,  Sor  Tommaso, 
the  doctor,  persuaded  him  that  Dalrymple  was  a 
worthy  young  man,  deeply  engaged  in  profound 
studies,  and  should  be  respected  rather  than 
exorcised. 

"Of  course,"  admitted  the  doctor,  "he  is  a 
Protestant.  But  then  he  has  a  passport.  Let  us 
therefore  let  him  alone." 

The  existence  of  the  passport  —  indispensable 
in  those  days — was  a  strong  argument  in  the 
eyes  of  the  simple  Stefanone.  He  could  not  con- 


24  CAS  A   BRACCIO. 

ceive  that  a  magician  whose  soul  was  sold  to 
the  devil  could  possibly  have  a  passport  and  be 
under  the  protection  of  the  law.  So  the  matter 
was  settled. 


Maria  Addolorata.—  Vol.  I.,  p.  25. 


CHAPTER  II. 

SISTEK  MARIA  ADDOLORATA  sat  by  the  open  door 
of  her  cell,  looking  across  the  stone  parapet  of  her 
little  balcony,  and  watching  the  changing  richness 
of  the  western  sky,  as  the  sun  went  down  far  out 
of  sight  behind  the  mountains.  Though  the  month 
was  October,  the  afternoon  was  warm ;  it  was  very 
still,  and  the  air  had  been  close  in  the  choir  during 
the  Benediction  service,  which  was  just  over.  She 
leaned  back  in  her  chair,  and  her  lips  parted  as 
she  breathed,  with  a  perceptible  desire  for  refresh 
ment  in  the  breath.  She  held  a  piece  of  needle 
work  in  her  heavy  white  hands;  the  needle  had 
been  thrust  through  the  linen,  but  the  stitch  had 
remained  unfinished,  and  one  pointed  finger  pressed 
the  doubled  edge  against  the  other,  lest  the  mate 
rial  should  slip  before  she  made  up  her  mind  to 
draw  the  needle  through.  Deep  in  the  garden 
under  the  balcony  the  late  flowers  were  taking 
strangely  vivid  colours  out  of  the  bright  sky  above, 
and  some  bits  of  broken  glass,  stuck  in  the  mortar 
on  the  top  of  the  opposite  wall  as  a  protection 
against  thieving  boys,  glowed  like  a  line  of  rough 

rubies  against  the  misty  distance.     Even  the  white 
25 


26  CAS  A   BBACCIO. 

walls  of  the  bare  cell  and  the  coarse  grey  blanket 
lying  across  the  foot  of  the  small  bed  drank  in  a 
little  of  the  colour,  and  looked  less  grey  and  less 
grim. 

From  the  eaves,  high  above  the  open  door,  the 
swallows  shot  down  into  the  golden  light,  striking 
great  circles  and  reflecting  the  red  gold  of  the  sky 
from  their  breasts  as  they  wheeled  just  beyond  the 
wall,  with  steady  wings  wide-stretched,  up  and 
down ;  and  each  one,  turning  at  full  speed,  struck 
upwards  again  and  was  out  of  sight  in  an  instant, 
above  the  lintel.  The  nun  watched  them,  her 
eyes  trying  to  follow  each  of  them  in  turn  and  to 
recognize  them  separately  as  they  flashed  into 
sight  again  and  again. 

Her  lips  were  parted,  and  as  she  sat  there  she 
began  to  sing  very  softly  and  quite  unconsciously. 
She  could  not  have  told  what  the  song  was.  The 
words  were  strange  and  oddly  divided,  and  there 
was  a  deadly  sadness  in  a  certain  interval  that 
came  back  almost  with  every  stave.  But  the  voice 
itself  was  beautiful  beyond  all  comparison  with 
ordinary  voices,  full  of  deep  and  touching  vibra 
tions  and  far  harmonics,  though  she  sang  so  softly, 
all  to  herself.  Notes  like  hers  haunt  the  ears  — 
and  sometimes  the  heart  —  when  she  who  sang 
them  has  been  long  dead,  and  many  would  give 
much  to  hear  but  a  breath  of  them  again. 

It  was  hard  for  Maria  Addolorata  not  to  sing 


CAS  A    BBACCIO.  27 

sometimes,  when  she  was  all  alone  in  her  cell, 
though  it  was  so  strictly  forbidden.  Singing  is 
a  gift  of  expression,  when  it  is  a  really  natural 
gift,  as  much  as  speech  and  gesture  and  the  smile 
on  the  lips,  with  the  one  difference  that  it  is  a 
keener  pleasure  to  him  or  her  that  sings  than 
gesture  or  speech  can  possibly  be.  Music,  and 
especially  singing,  are  a  physical  as  well  as  an 
intellectual  expression,  a  pleasure  of  the  body  as 
well  as  a  '  delectation '  of  the  soul.  To  sing  nat 
urally  and  spontaneously  is  most  generally  an 
endowment  of  natures  physically  strong  and  rich 
by  the  senses,  independently  of  the  mind,  though 
melody  may  sometimes  be  the  audible  translation 
of  a  silent  thought  as  well  as  the  unconscious 
speech  of  wordless  passion. 

And  in  Maria's  song  there  was  a  strain  of  that 
something  unknown  and  fatal,  which  the  nuns 
sometimes  saw  in  her  face  and  which  was  in  her 
eyes  now,  as  she  sang ;  for  they  no  longer  followed 
the  circling  of  the  swallows,  but  grew  fixed  and 
dark,  with  fiery  reflexions  from  the  sunset  sky, 
and  the  regular  features  grew  white  and  straight 
and  square  against  the  deepening  shadows  within 
the  narrow  room.  The  deep  voice  trembled  a 
little,  and  the  shoulders  had  a  short,  shivering 
movement  under  the  heavy  folds  of  the  dark  veil, 
as  the  sensation  of  a  presence  ran  through  her  and 
made  her  shudder.  But  the  voice  did  not  break, 


28  CASA  BRACCIO. 

and  she  sang  on,  louder,  now,  than  she  realized, 
the  full  notes  swelling  in  her  throat,  and  vibrating 
between  the  narrow  walls,  and  floating  out  through 
the  open  door  to  join  the  flight  of  the  swallows. 

The  door  of  the  cell  opened  gently,  but  she  did 
not  hear,  and  sang  on,  leaning  back  in  her  chair 
and  gazing  still  at  the  pink  clouds  above  the 
mountains. 

•'Death  is  my  love,  dark-eyed  death — " 

she  sang. 

"  Maria ! " 

The  abbess  was  standing  in  the  doorway  and 
speaking  to  her,  but  she  did  not  hear. 

"His  hands  are  sweetly  cold  and  gentle  — 
Flowers  of  leek,  and  firefly  — 
Holy  Saint  John  !  " 

"  Maria ! "  cried  the  abbess,  impatiently.  "  What 
follies  are  you  singing  ?  I  could  hear  you  in  my 
room ! " 

Maria  Addolorata  started  and  rose  from  her 
seat,  still  holding  her  needlework,  and  tiirning 
half  round  towards  her  superior,  with  suddenly 
downcast  eyes.  The  elder  lady  came  forward  with 
slow  dignity  and  walked  as  far  as  the  door  of  the 
balcony,  where  she  stood  still  for  a  moment,  gazing 
at  the  beautiful  sky.  She  was  not  a  stately  woman, 
for  she  was  too  short  and  stout,  but  she  had  that 
calm  air  of  assured  superiority  which  takes  the 


CAS  A   BBACCIO.  29 

place  of  stateliness,  and  which  seems  to  belong 
especially  to  those  who  occupy  important  posi 
tions  in  the  Church.  Her  large  features,  though 
too  heavy,  were  imposing  in  their  excessive  pallor, 
while  the  broad,  dark  brown  shadows  all  around 
and  beneath  the  large  black  eyes  gave  the  face  a 
depth  of  expression  which  did  not,  perhaps,  wholly 
correspond  with  the  original  character.  It  was 
a  striking  face,  and  considering  the  wide  interval 
between  the  ages  of  the  abbess  and  her  niece,  and 
the  natural  difference  of  colouring,  there  was  a 
strong  family  resemblance  in  the  two  women. 

The  abbess  sat  down  upon  the  only  chair,  and 
Maria  remained  standing  before  her,  her  sewing 
in  her  hands. 

"  I  have  often  told  you  that  you  must  not  sing 
in  your  cell,"  said  the  abbess,  in  a  coldly  severe 
tone. 

Maria's  shoulders  shook  her  veil  a  little,  but  she 
still  looked  at  the  floor. 

"  I  cannot  help  it,"  she  answered  in  a  constrained 
voice.  "I  did  not  know  that  I  was  singing  —  " 

"That  is  ridiculous!  How  can  one  sing,  and 
not  know  it?  You  are  not  deaf.  At  least,  you 
do  not  sing  as  though  you  were.  I  will  not  have 
it.  I  could  hear  you  as  far  away  as  my  own  room 
—  a  love-song,  too ! " 

"The  love  of  death,"  suggested  Maria. 

"It  makes   no   difference,"  answered  the  elder 


30  CAS  A   BRACCIO. 

lady.  "  You  disturb  the  peace  of  the  sisters  with 
your  singing.  You  know  the  rule,  and  you  must 
obey  it,  like  the  rest.  If  you  must  sing,  then  sing 
in  church." 

"I  do." 

"Very  well,  that  ought  to  be  enough.  Must 
you  sing  all  the  time  ?  Suppose  that  the  Cardinal 
had  been  visiting  me,  as  was  quite  possible,  what 
impression  would  he  have  had  of  our  discipline  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Uncle  Cardinal  has  often  heard  me  sing." 

"  You  must  not  call  him  <  Uncle  Cardinal.'  It  is 
like  the  common  people  who  say  '  Uncle  Priest.'  I 
have  told  you  that  a  hundred  times  at  least.  And 
if  the  Cardinal  has  heard  you  singing,  so  much  the 
worse." 

"He  once  told  me  that  I  had  a  good  voice," 
observed  Maria,  still  standing  before  her  aunt. 

"  A  good  voice  is  a  gift  of  God  and  to  be  used 
in  church,  but  not  in  such  a  way  as  to  attract 
attention  or  admiration.  The  devil  is  everywhere, 
my  daughter,  and  makes  use  of  our  best  gifts  as  a 
means  of  temptation.  The  Cardinal  certainly  did 
not  hear  you  singing  that  witch's  love-song  which 
I  heard  just  now.  He  would  have  rebuked  you  as 
I  do." 

"It  was  not  a  love-song.  It  is  about  death  — 
and  Saint  John's  eve." 

"  Well,  then  it  is  about  witches.  Do  not  argue 
with  me.  There  is  a  rule,  and  you  must  not 
break  it." 


CAS  A    BRACCIO.  31 

Maria  Addolorata  said  nothing,  but  moved  a 
step  and  leaned  against  the  door-post,  looking  out 
into  the  evening  light.  The  stout  abbess  sat  mo 
tionless  in  her  straight  chair,  looking  past  her 
niece  at  the  distant  hills.  She  had  evidently  said 
all  she  meant  to  say  about  the  singing,  and  it  did 
not  occur  to  her  to  talk  of  anything  else.  A  long 
silence  followed.  Maria  was  not  timid,  but  she 
had  been  accustomed  from  her  childhood  to  look 
upon  her  aunt  as  an  immensely  superior  person, 
moving  in  a  higher  sphere,  and  five  years  spent  in 
the  convent  as  novice  and  nun  had  rather  increased 
than  diminished  the  feeling  of  awe  which  the  abbess 
inspired  in  the  young  girl.  There  was,  indeed,  no 
other  sister  in  the  community  who  would  have 
dared  to  answer  the  abbess's  rebuke  at  all,  and 
Maria's  very  humble  protest  really  represented  an 
extraordinary  degree  of  individuality  and  courage. 
Conventual  institutions  can  only  exist  on  a  basis  of 
absolute  submission. 

The  abbess  was  neither  harsh  nor  unkind,  and 
was  certainly  not  a  very  terrifying  figure,  but  she 
possessed  undeniable  force  of  character,  strength 
ened  by  the  inborn  sense  of  hereditary  right  and 
power,  and  her  kindness  was  as  imposing  as  her 
displeasure  was  lofty  and  solemn.  She  had  very 
little  sympathy  for  any  weakness  in  others,  but 
she  was  always  ready  to  dispense  the  mercy  of 
Heaven,  vicariously,  so  to  say,  and  with  a  certain 


32  CASA   BBACCIO. 

royally  suppressed  surprise  that  Heaven  should  be 
merciful.  On  the  whole,  considering  the  circum 
stances,  she  admitted  that  Maria  Addolorata  had 
accepted  the  veil  with  sufficient  outward  grace, 
though  without  any  vocation,  and  she  took  it  for 
granted  that  with  such  opportunities  the  girl  must 
slowly  develop  into  an  abbess  not  unlike  her  prede 
cessors.  She  prayed  regularly,  of  course,  and  with 
especial  intention,  for  her  niece,  as  for  the  welfare 
of  the  order,  and  assumed  as  an  unquestionable 
result  that  her  prayers  were  answered  with  perfect 
regularity,  since  her  own  conscience  did  not  re 
proach  her  with  negligence  of  her  young  relative's 
spiritual  education. 

To  the  abbess,  religion,  the  order  and  its  duties, 
presented  themselves  as  a  vast  machine  controlled 
for  the  glory  of  God  by  the  Pope.  She  and  her 
nuns  were  parts  of  the  great  engine  which  must 
work  with  perfect  regularity  in  order  that  God 
might  be  glorified.  Her  mind  was  naturally  re 
ligious,  but  was  at  the  same  time  essentially  of  the 
material  order.  There  is  a  material  imagination, 
and  there  is  a  spiritual  imagination.  There  are 
very  good  and  devout  men  and  women  who  take  the 
world,  present  and  to  come,  quite  literally,  as  a 
mere  fulfilment  of  their  own  limitations ;  who  look 
upon  what  they  know  as  being  all  that  need  be 
known,  and  upon  what  they  believe  of  God  and 
Heaven  as  the  mechanical  consequence  of  what 


CAS  A    BBACCIO.  33 

they  know  rather  than  as  the  cause  and  goal,  re 
spectively,  of  existence  and  action;  to  whom  the 
letter  of  the  law  is  the  arbitrary  expression  of  a 
despotic  power,  which,  somehow,  must  be  looked 
upon  as  merciful;  who  answer  all  questions  con 
cerning  God's  logic  with  the  tremendous  assertion 
of  God's  will ;  whose  God  is  a  magnified  man,  and 
whose  devil  is  a  malignant  animal,  second  only  to 
God  in  understanding,  while  extreme  from  God 
in  disposition.  There  are  good  men  and  women 
who,  to  use  a  natural  but  not  flippant  simile,  take 
it  for  granted  that  the  soul  is  cast  into  the  troubled 
waters  of  life  without  the  power  to  swim,  or  even 
the  possibility  of  learning  to  float,  dependent  upon 
the  bare  chance  that  some  one  may  throw  it  the 
life-buoy  of  ritual  religion  as  its  only  conceivable 
means  of  salvation.  And  the  opponents  of  each 
particular  form  of  faith  invariably  take  just  such 
good  men  and  women,  with  all  their  limitations,  as 
the  only  true  exponents  of  that  especial  creed, 
which  they  then  proceed  to  tear  in  pieces  with  all 
the  ease  such  an  undue  advantage  of  false  premise 
gives  them.  None  of  them  have  thought  of  intel 
lectual  mercy  as  being,  perhaps,  an  integral  part  of 
Christian  charity.  Faith  they  have  in  abundance, 
and  hope  also  not  a  little ;  but  charity,  though  it 
be  for  men's  earthly  ills  and,  theoretically,  if  not 
always  practically,  for  men's  spiritual  shortcom 
ings,  is  rigidly  forbidden  for  the  errors  of  men's 

VOL.    I.  D 


34  CAS  A   BRACCIO. 

minds.  Why  ?  No  thinking  man  can  help  asking 
the  little  question  which  grows  great  in  the  unan- 
swering  silence  that  follows  it. 

All  this  is  not  intended  as  an  apology  for  what 
the  young  nun,  Maria  Addolorata,  afterwards  did, 
though  much  of  it  is  necessary  in  explanation  of 
her  deeds,  which,  however  they  may  be  regarded, 
brought  upon  her  and  others  their  inevitable  logical 
consequences.  Still  less  is  it  meant,  in  any  sense, 
as  an  attack  upon  the  conventual  system  of  the  clois 
tered  orders,  which  system  was  itself  a  consequence 
of  spiritual,  intellectual  and  political  history,  and 
has  a  prime  right  to  be  judged  upon  the  evidence  of 
its  causes,  and  not  by  the  shortcomings  of  its  results 
in  changed  times.  What  has  been  said  merely 
makes  clear  the  fact  that  the  characters,  minds, 
and  dispositions  of  Maria  Addolorata  and  of  her 
aunt,  the  abbess,  were  wholly  unsuited  to  one  an 
other.  And  this  one  fact  became  a  source  of  life 
and  death,  of  happiness  and  misery,  of  comedy  and 
tragedy,  to  many  individuals,  even  to  the  pres 
ent  day. 

The  nun  remained  motionless,  pressing  her  cheek 
against  the  door-post  and  looking  out.  Her  aunt 
had  not  quite  shut  the  door  by  which  she  had 
entered,  and  a  cool  stream  of  air  blew  outward  from 
the  corridor  and  through  the  cell,  bringing  with  it 
that  peculiar  odour  which  belongs  to  all  large  and 
old  buildings  inhabited  by  religious  communities. 


CAS  A   BRACCIO.  35 


It  is  made  up  of  the  cold  exhalations  from  stone 
walls  and  paved  floors  in  which  there  is  always 
some  dampness,  of  the  acrid  smell  of  the  heavy, 
leathern,  wadded  curtains  which  shut  off  the  main 
drafts  of  air,  as  the  swinging  doors  do  in  a  mine, 
of  a  faint  but  perceptible  suggestion  of  incense 
which  penetrates  the  whole  building  from  the 
church  or  the  chapel,  and,  not  least,  of  the  fumes 
from  the  cookery  of  the  great  quantities  of  vegeta 
bles  which  are  the  staple  food  of  the  brethren  or 
the  sisters.  It  is  as  imperceptible  to  the  monks  and 
nuns  themselves  as  the  smell  of  tobacco  to  the 
smoker. 

It  had  been  very  close  in  the  little  cell,  and 
Maria  was  glad  of  the  coolness  that  came  in 
through  the  open  door.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  on 
the  sky  with  a  longing  look.  Again  the  words  of 
her  song  rose  to  her  lips,  but  she  checked  them, 
remembering  her  aunt's  presence,  and  with  the 
eifort  to  be  silent  came  the  strong  wish  to  be  free, 
to  be  over  there  upon  those  purple  hills  at  evening, 
to  look  beyond  and  watch  the  sun  sinking  into  the 
distant  sea,  to  breathe  her  fill  of  the  mountain  air, 
to  run  along  the  crests  of  the  hills  till  she  should 
be  tired,  to  sleep  under  the  open  sky,  to  see,  in 
dreams,  to-morrow's  sun  rising  through  the  trees, 
to  be  waked  by  the  song  of  birds  and  to  find  that 
the  dream  was  true. 

Instead  of  that,  and  instead  of  all  it  meant  to 


36  CAS  A    BRACCIO. 

her,  there  was  to  be  the  silent  evening  meal,  the 
close,  lighted  chapel,  the  wearily  nasal  chant  of 
the  sisters,  her  lonely  cell,  with  its  close  dark 
ness,  the  unrefreshing  sleep,  broken  by  the  bell 
calling  her  to  another  office  in  the  chapel;  then, 
at  last,  the  dawn,  and  the  day  that  would  seem  as 
much  a  prisoner  as  herself  within  the  convent 
walls,  and  the  praying  and  nasal  chanting,  and 
the  counting  of  sheets  and  pillow-cases,  and  doing 
a  little  sewing,  and  singing  to  herself,  perhaps, 
and  then  the  being  reproved  for  it  —  the  whole 
varied  by  meals  of  coarse  food,  and  periodical 
stations  in  her  seat  in  the  choir.  The  day !  The 
very  sun  seemed  imprisoned  in  his  corner  of  the 
garden  wall,  dragging  slowly  at  his  chain,  in  a 
short  half-circle,  from  morning  till  evening,  like 
a  watch-dog  tied  up  in  a  yard  beside  his  kennel. 
The  night  was  better.  Sometimes  she  could  see 
the  moon-rays  through  the  cracks  of  the  balcony 
door,  as  she  lay  in  her  bed.  She  could  see  them 
against  the  darkness,  and  the  ends  of  them  were 
straight  white  lines  and  round  white  spots  on  the 
floor  and  on  the  walls.  Her  thoughts  played  in 
them,  and  her  maiden  fancies  caught  them  and 
followed  them  lightly  out  into  the  white  night  and 
far  away  to  the  third  world,  which  is  dreamland. 
And  in  her  dreams  she  sang  to  the  midnight  stars, 
and  clasped  her  bare  arms  round  the  moon's  white 
throat,  kissing  the  moon-lady's  pale  and  passionate 


CAS  A   BRACCIO.  37 

cheek,  till  she  lost  herself  in  the  mysterious  eyes, 
and  found  herself  once  more,  bathed  in  cool  star- 
showers,  the  queen  of  a  tender  dream. 

There  sat  the  abbess,  in  the  only  chair,  stolid, 
righteous,  imposing.  The  incarnation  and  repre 
sentative  of  the  ninety  and  nine  who  need  no 
forgiveness,  exasperatingly  and  mathematically 
virtuous  as  a  dogma,  a  woman  against  whom  no 
sort  of  reproach  could  be  brought,  and  at  the  mere 
sight  of  whom  false  witnesses  would  shrivel  up 
and  die,  like  jelly-fish  in  the  sun.  She  not  only 
approved  of  ^the  convent  life,  but  she  liked  it. 
She  was  at  liberty  to  do  a  thousand  things  which 
were  not  permitted  to  the  nuns,  but  she  had  not 
the  slightest  inclination  to  do  any  of  them,  any 
more  than  she  was  inclined  to  admit  that  any  of 
them  could  possibly  be  unhappy  if  they  would 
only  pray,  sing,  sleep,  and  eat  boiled  cabbage  at 
the  appointed  hours.  What  had  she  in  common 
with  Maria  Addolorata,  except  that  she  was  born 
a  princess  and  a  Braccio  ? 

Of  what  use  was  it  to  be  a  princess  by  birth, 
like  a  dozen  or  more  of  the  sisters,  or  even  a  noble, 
like  all  the  others  ?  Of  what  use  or  advantage 
could  anything  be,  where  liberty  was  not  ?  An 
even  plainer  and  more  desperate  question  rose  in 
the  young  nun's  heart,  as  she  leaned  her  cheek 
against  the  door-post,  still  warm  with  the  afternoon 
sun.  Of  what  use  was  life,  if  it  was  to  be  lived 


38  CAS  A    BRACCIO. 

in  the  tomb  with  the  accompaniment  of  a  life-long 
funeral  service  ?  Why  should  not  God  be  as  well 
pleased  with  suicide  as  with  self-burial  ?  Why 
should  not  death  all  at  once,  by  the  sudden  dash 
of  cleanly  steel,  be  as  noble  and  acceptable  a 
sacrifice  as  death  by  sordid  degrees  of  orderly 
suffering,  systematic  starvation,  and  rigidly  regu 
lated  misery  ?  Was  not  life,  life  —  and  blood, 
blood  —  whether  drawn  by  drops,  or  shed  from  a 
quick  wound  in  the  splendid  redness  of  one  heroic 
instant  ?  Surely  it  would  be  as  grand  a  thing,  if 
a  mere  sacrifice  were  the  object,  to  be  laid  down 
stark  dead,  with  the  death-thrust  in  the  heart,  at 
the  foot  of  the  altar,  in  all  her  radiant  youth  and 
full  young  beauty,  untempted  and  unsullied,  as  to 
fast  and  pray  through  forty  querulous  years  of 
misery  in  prison. 

But  then,  there  was  the  virtue  of  patience. 
Therein,  doubtless,  lay  the  difference.  It  was  not 
the  death  alone  that  was  to  please  God,  but  the 
long  manner  of  it,  the  summed-up  account  of  suf 
fering,  the  interest  paid  on  the  capital  of  life  after 
it  was  invested  in  death.  God  was  to  be  pleased 
with  items,  and  the  sum  of  them.  Item,  a  sleepless 
night.  Item,  a  bad  cold,  caught  by  kneeling  on 
the  damp  stones.  Item,  a  dish  of  sweets  refused 
on  a  feast-day.  Item,  the  resolution  not  to  laugh 
when  a  fly  settled  on  the  abbess's  nose.  Item,  the 
resolution  not  to  wish  that  her  hair  had  never  been 


CAS  A    BRACCIO.  39 

cut  off.  Item,  being  stifled  in  summer  and  frozen 
in  winter,  in  her  cell.  Item,  appreciating  that  it 
was  the  best  cell,  and  that  she  was  better  off  than 
the  other  sisters. 

Bepeat  the  items  for  half  a  century,  sum  them 
up,  and  offer  them  to  God  as  a  meet  and  fitting 
sacrifice  —  the  destruction,  by  fine  degrees  of  petty 
suffering,  of  one  woman's  whole  life,  almost  from 
the  beginning,  and  quite  to  the  end,  with  the  total 
annihilation  of  all  its  human  possibilities,  of  love, 
of  motherhood,  of  reasonable  enjoyment  and  legiti 
mate  happiness.  That  was  the  formula  for  salva 
tion  which  Maria  Addolorata  had  received  with 
the  veil. 

And  not  only  had  she  received  it.  It  had  been 
thrust  upon  her,  because  she  chanced  to  be  the 
only  available  daughter  of  the  ancient  house  of 
Braccio,  to  fill  the  hereditary  seat  beneath  the 
wooden  canopy,  as  abbess  of  the  Subiaco  Car 
melites.  If  there  had  been  another  sister,  less 
fair,  more  religiously  disposed,  that  sister  would 
have  been  chosen  in  Maria's  stead.  But  there  was 
no  other;  and  there  must  be  a  young  Braccio  nun, 
to  take  the  place  of  the  elder  one,  when  the  latter 
should  have  filled  her  account  to  overflowing  with 
little  items  to  be  paid  for  with  the  gold  of  certain, 
salvation. 

That  a  sinful  woman,  full  of  sorrows,  and  weary 
of  the  world,  might  silently  bow  her  head  under 


40  CAS  A    BRACCIO. 

the  nun's  veil,  and  wear  out  with  prayerful  auster 
ity  the  deep-cut  letters  of  her  sin's  story,  that, 
at  least,  was  a  thing  Maria  could  understand. 
There  were  faces  amongst  the  sisters  that  haunted 
her  in  her  solitude,  lips  that  could  have  told  much, 
but  which  said  only  'Miserere';  eyes  that  had 
looked  on  love,  and  that  fixed  themselves  now 
only  on  the  Cross  ;  cheeks  blanched  with  grief  and 
hollowed  as  the  marble  of  an  ancient  fountain  by 
often  flowing  tears ;  hearts  that  had  given  all, 
and  had  been  beaten  and  bruised  and  rejected. 
The  convent  was  for  them ;  the  life  was  a  life  for 
them ;  for  them  there  was  no  freedom  beyond 
these  walls,  in  the  living  world,  nor  anywhere  on 
this  side  of  death.  They  had  done  right  in  com 
ing,  and  they  did  right  in  staying;  they  were 
reasonable  when  they  prayed  that  they  might  have 
time,  before  they  died,  to  be  sorry  for  their  sins 
and  to  touch  again  the  hem  of  the  garment  of 
innocence. 

But  even  they,  if  they  were  told  that  it  would 
be  right,  would  they  not  rather  shorten  their  time 
to  a  day,  even  to  one  instant,  of  aggregated  pain, 
and  offer  up  their  sacrifice  all  at  once  ?  And  why 
should  it  not  be  right  ?  Did  God  delight  in  pain 
and  suffering  for  its  own  sake  ?  The  passionate 
girl's  heart  revolted  angrily  against  a  Being  that 
could  enjoy  the  sufferings  of  helpless  creatures. 

But  then,   there   was   that   virtue    of   patience 


CAS  A    BBACCIO.  41 

again,  which  was  beyond  her  comprehension.  At 
last  she  spoke,  her  face  still  to  the  sunset. 

"What  difference  can  it  make  to  God  how  we 
die  ? "  she  asked,  scarcely  conscious  that  she  was 
speaking. 

The  abbess  must  have  started  a  little,  for  the 
chair  creaked  suddenly,  several  seconds  before  she 
answered.  Her  face  did  not  relax,  however,  nor 
were  her  hands  unclasped  from  one  another  as 
they  lay  folded  on  her  knees. 

"That  is  a  foolish  question,  my  daughter,"  she 
said  at  last.  "  Do  you  think  that  God  was  not 
pleased  by  the  sufferings  of  the  holy  martyrs,  and 
did  not  reward  them  for  what  they  bore  ?  " 

"No,  I  did  not  mean  that,"  answered  Maria, 
quickly.  "  But  why  should  we  not  all  be  martyrs  ? 
It  would  be  much  quicker." 

"  Heaven  preserve  us ! "  exclaimed  the  abbess. 
"  "What  are  you  thinking  of,  child  ?  " 

".It  would  be  so  much  quicker,"  repeated  Maria. 
"  What  are  we  here  for  ?  To  sacrifice  our  lives  to 
God.  We  wish  to  make  this  sacrifice,  and  God 
promises  to  accept  it.  Why  would  it  be  less  com 
plete  if  we  were  led  to  the  altar  as  soon  as  we 
have  finished  our  novitiate  and  quickly  killed  ?  It 
would  be  the  same,  and  it  would  be  much  quicker. 
What  difference  can  it  make  how  we  die,  since  we 
are  to  die  in  the  end,  without  accomplishing  any 
thing  except  dying  ?  " 


42  CAS  A    BBACCIO. 

By  this  time  the  abbess's  pale  hands  were  un 
clasped,  and  one  of  them  pressed  each  knee,  as 
she  leaned  far  forward  in  her  seat,  with  an  expres 
sion  of  surprise  and  horror,  her  dark  lips  parted 
and  all  the  lines  of  her  colourless  face  drawn 
down. 

"Are  you  mad,  Maria?"  she  asked  in  a  low 
voice. 

"  Mad  ?  No.  Why  should  you  think  me  mad  ?  " 
The  nun  turned  and  looked  down  at  her  aunt. 
"  After  all,  it  is  the  great  question.  Our  lives  are 
but  a  preparation  for  death.  Why  need  the  prepa 
ration  be  so  long  ?  Why  should  the  death  be  so 
slow  ?  Why  should  it  be  right  to  kill  ourselves 
for  the  glory  of  God  by  degrees,  and  wrong  to  do 
it  all  at  once,  if  one  has  the  courage  ?  I  think  it 
is  a  very  reasonable  question." 

"  Indeed,  you  are  beside  yourself !  The  dervil 
suggests  such  things  to  you  and  blinds  you  to  the 
truth,  my  child.  Penance  and  prayer,  prayer  and 
penance  —  by  the  grace  of  Heaven  it  will  pass." 

"  Penance  and  prayer ! "  exclaimed  Maria,  sadly. 
"  That  is  it  —  a  slow  death,  but  a  sure  one ! " 

"  I  am  more  than  sixty  years  old,"  replied  the 
abbess.  "  I  have  done  penance  and  prayed  prayers 
all  my  life,  and  you  see  —  I  am  well.  I  am  stout." 

"  For  charity's  sake,  do  not  say  so ! "  cried  Maria, 
making  the  sign  of  the  horns  with  her  fingers,  to 
ward  off  the  evil  eye.  "  You  will  certainly  fall  ill." 


CASA    BRACCIO.  43 

"  Our  lives  are  of  God.  It  is  our  own  eyes  that 
are  evil.  You  must  not  make  horns  with  your 
fingers.  It  is  a  heathen  superstition,  as  I  have 
often  told  you.  But  many  of  you  do  it.  Maria,  I 
wish  to  speak  to  you  seriously." 

"  Speak,  mother,"  answered  the  young  nun,  the 
strong  habit  of  submission  returning  instantly 
with  the  other's  grave  tone. 

"  These  thoughts  of  yours  are  very  wicked. 
We  are  placed  in  the  world,  and  we  must  continue 
to  live  in  it,  as  long  as  God  wills  that  we  should. 
When  God  is  pleased  to  deliver  us,  He  will  take  us 
in  good  time.  You  and  I  and  the  sisters  should  be 
thankful  that  during  our  brief  stay  on  earth  this 
sanctuary  has  fallen  to  our  lot,  and  this  possibility 
of  a  holy  life.  We  must  take  every  advantage  of 
it,  thanking  Heaven  if  our  stay  be  long  enough  for 
us  to  repent  of  our  sins  and  obtain  indulgence  for 
our  venial  shortcomings.  It  is  wicked  to  desire  to 
shorten  our  lives.  It  is  wicked  to  desire  anything 
which  is  not  the  will  of  God.  We  are  here  to  live, 
to  watch  and  to  pray — not  to  complain  and  to  rebel." 

The  abbess  was  stout,  as  she  herself  admitted, 
and  between  her  sudden  surprise  at  her  niece's 
wholly  unorthodox,  not  to  say  blasphemous,  sug 
gestion  of  suicide  as  a  means  of  grace,  and  her  own 
attempt  at  eloquence,  she  grew  rapidly  warm,  in 
spite  of  the  comparatively  cool  draft  which  was 
passing  out  from  the  interior  of  the  building.  She 


44  CAS  A   BRACCIO. 

caught  the  end  of  her  loose  over-sleeve  and  fanned 
herself  slowly  when  she  had  finished  speaking. 

But  Maria  Addolorata  did  not  consider  that  she 
was  answered.  There  in  the  cell  of  a  Carmelite 
convent,  in  the  heart  of  a  young  girl  who  had  per 
haps  never  heard  of  Shakespeare  and  who  cer 
tainly  knew  nothing  of  Hamlet,  the  question  of 
all  questions  found  itself,  and  she  found  for  it  such 
speech  as  she  could  command.  It  broke  out  pas 
sionately  and  impatiently. 

"  What  are  we  ?  And  why  are  we  what  we  are  ? 
Yes,  mother  —  I  know  that  you  are  good,  and  that 
all  you  say  is  true.  But  it  is  not  all.  There  is  all 
the  world  beyond  it.  To  live,  or  not  to  live  —  but 
you  know  that  this  is  not  living !  It  is  not  meant 
to  be  living,  as  the  people  outside  understand  what 
living  means.  What  does  it  all  signify  but  death, 
when  we  take  the  veil,  and  lie  before  the  altar,  and 
are  covered  with  a  funeral  pall  ?  It  means  dying 
—  then  why  not  altogether  dying  ?  Has  not  God 
angels,  in  thousands,  to  praise  Him  and  worship 
Him,  and  pray  for  sinners  on  earth?  And  they 
sing  and  pray  gladly,  because  they  are  blessed  and 
do  not  suffer,  as  we  do.  Why  should  God  want  us, 
poor  little  nuns,  to  live  half  dead,  and  to  praise  Him 
with  voices  that  crack  with  the  cold  in  winter,  and 
to  kneel  till  we  faint  with  the  heat  in  summer, 
and  to  wear  out  our  bodies  with  fasting  and  prayer 
and  penance,  till  it  is  all  we  can  do  to  crawl  to  our 


CAS  A   B  BAG  CIO.  45 

places  in  the  choir  ?  Not  I  —  I  am  young  and 
strong  still  —  nor  you,  perhaps,  for  you  are  strong 
still,  though  you  are  not  young.  But  many  of  the 
sisters — yes,  they  are  the  best  ones,  I  know  — 
they  are  killing  themselves  by  inches  before  our 
eyes.  You  know  it  —  I  know  it  —  they  know  it 
themselves.  Why  should  they  not  find  some 
shorter  way  of  death  for  God's  glory  ?  Or  if  not, 
why  should  they  not  live  happily,  since  many  of 
them  could  ?  Why  should  God,  who  made  us,  wish 
us  to  destroy  ourselves  —  or  if  He  does,  then  why 
may  we  not  do  it  in  our  own  way  ?  Ah  —  it  would 
be  so  short  —  a  knife-thrust,  and  then  the  great 
peace  forever ! " 

The  abbess  had  risen  and  was  standing  before 
Maria,  one  hand  resting  on  the  back  of  the  rush- 
bottomed  chair. 

"  Blasphemy  ! "  she  cried,  finding  breath  at  last. 
"  It  is  blasphemy,  or  madness,  or  both  !  It  is  the 
evil  one's  own  doing !  Forgive  her,  good  God ! 
She  does  not  know  what  she  is  saying !  Almighty 
and  most  merciful  God,  forgive  her ! " 

For  a  moment  Maria  Addolorata  was  silent, 
realizing  how  far  she  had  forgotten  herself,  and 
startled  by  the  abbess's  terrified  eyes  and  excited 
tone.  But  she  was  naturally  a  far  more  dar 
ing  woman  than  she  herself  knew.  Though  her 
face  was  pale,  her  lips  smiled  at  her  good  aunt's 
fright. 


46  CASA   BBACC10. 

"But  that  is  not  an  answer  —  just  to  cry  '  blas 
phemy  ! ' "  she  said.  "  The  question  is  clear  —  " 

She  did  not  finish  the  sentence.  The  abbess  was 
really  beside  herself  with  religious  terror.  With 
almost  violent  hands  she  dragged  and  thrust  her 
niece  down  till  Maria  fell  upon  her  knees. 

"  Fray,  child !  Pray,  before  it  is  too  late ! "  she 
cried.  "  Pray  on  your  knees  that  this  possession 
may  pass,  before  your  soul  is  lost  forever ! " 

She  herself  knelt  beside  the  girl  upon  the 
stones,  still  clasping  her  and  pressing  her  down. 
And  she  prayed  aloud,  long,  fervently,  almost 
wildly,  appealing  to  God  for  protection  against  a 
bodily  tempting  devil,  who  by  his  will,  and  with 
evil  strength,  was  luring  and  driving  a  human  soul 
to  utter  damnation. 


CHAPTER   III. 

"!T  is  well,"  said  Stefanone.  "The  world  is 
come  to  an  end.  I  will  not  say  anything  more." 

He  finished  his  tumbler  of  wine,  leaned  back  on 
the  wooden  bench  against  the  brown  wall,  played 
with  the  broad  silver  buttons  of  his  dark  blue 
jacket,  and  stared  hard  at  Sor  Tommaso,  the 
doctor,  who  sat  opposite  to  him.  The  doctor  re 
turned  his  glance  rather  unsteadily  and  betook 
himself  to  his  snuffbox.  It  was  of  worn  black 
ebony,  adorned  in  the  middle  of  the  lid  with  a 
small  view  of  Saint  Peter's  and  the  colonnades  in 
mosaic,  with  a  very  blue  sky.  From  long  use,  each 
tiny  fragment  of  the  mosaic  was  surrounded  by  a 
minute  black  line,  which  indeed  lent  some  tone 
to  the  intensely  clear  atmosphere  of  the  little 
picture,  but  gave  the  architecture  represented 
therein  a  dirty  and  neglected  appearance.  The 
snuff  itself,  however,  was  of  the  superior  quality 
known  as  Sicilian  in  those  days,  and  was  of  a 
beautiful  light  brown  colour. 

"  And  why  ?  "  asked  the  doctor  very  slowly,  be 
tween  the  operations  of  pinching,  stuffing,  snuffing, 
and  dusting.  "  Why  is  the  world  come  to  au  end  ?  " 
47 


48  CASA   BBACCIO. 

Stefanone's  eyes  grew  sullen,  with  a  sort  of  dull 
glare  in  their  unwinking  gaze.  He  looked  dan 
gerous  just  then,  but  the  doctor  did  not  seem  to 
be  in  the  least  afraid  of  him. 

"  You,  who  have  made  it  end,  should  know  why," 
answered  the  peasant:,  after  a  short  pause. 

Stefanone  was  a  niun  of  the  Koman  type,  of 
medium  height,  thick  set  and  naturally  melan 
cholic,  with  thin,  straight  lips  that  were  clean 
shaven,  straight  black  hair,  a  small  but  aggres 
sively  aquiline  nose  and  heavy  hands,  hairy  on 
the  backs  of  the  fingers,  between  the  knuckles. 
His  wife,  Sora  Nanna,  said  that  he  had  a  fist  like 
a  paving-stone.  He  also  looked  as  though  he  might 
have  the  constitution  of  a  mule.  He  was  at  that 
time  about  five-and-thirty  years  of  age,  and  there 
were  a  few  strong  lines  in  his  face,  notably  those 
curved  ones  drawn  from  the  beginning  of  the 
nostrils  to  the  corners  of  the  mouth,  which  are 
said  to  denote  an  uncertain  temper. 

He  wore  the  dress  of  the  richer  peasants  of  that 
day,  a  coarse  but  spotless  white  shirt,  very  open 
at  the  throat,  a  jacket  and  waistcoat  of  stout  dark 
blue  cloth,  with  large  and  smooth  silver  buttons, 
knee-breeches,  white  stockings,  and  heavy  low  shoes 
with  steel  buckles.  He  combined  the  occupations 
of  farmer,  wine-seller,  and  carrier.  When  he  was 
on  the  road  between  Subiaco  and  Eome,  Gigetto, 
already  mentioned,  was  supposed  to  represent  him. 


CASA   BRACCIO.  49 

It  was  understood  that  Gigetto  was  to  marry 
Annetta  —  if  he  could  be  prevailed  upon  to  do  so, 
for  he  was  the  younger  son  of  a  peasant  family 
which  held  its  head  even  higher  than  Stefanone, 
and  the  young  man  as  well  as  his  people  looked 
upon  Annetta's  wild  ways  with  disapproval,  though 
her  fortune,  as  the  only  child  of  Stefanone  and 
Sora  Nanna,  was  a  very  strong  attraction.  In  the 
meantime,  Gigetto  acted  as  though  he  were  the 
older  man's  partner  in  the  wine-shop,  and  as  he 
was  a  particularly  honest,  but  also  a  particularly 
idle,  young  man  with  a  taste  for  singing  and  playing 
on  the  guitar,  the  position  suited  him  admirably. 

As  for  Sor  Tommaso,  with  whom  Stefanone 
seemed  inclined  to  quarrel  on  this  particular  even 
ing,  he  was  a  highly  respectable  personage  in  a 
narrow-shouldered,  high-collared  black  coat  with 
broad  skirts,  and  a  snuff-coloured  waistcoat.  He 
wore  a  stock  which  was  decidedly  shabby,  but 
decent,  and  the  thin  cuffs  of  his  shirt  were  turned 
back  over  the  tight  sleeves  of  his  coat,  in  the  old 
fashion.  He  also  wore  amazingly  tight  black 
trousers,  strapped  closely  over  his  well-blacked 
boots.  To  tell  the  truth,  these  nether  garments, 
though  of  great  natural  resistance,  had  lived  so 
long  at  a  high  tension,  so  to  say,  that  they  were 
no  longer  equally  tight  at  all  points,  and  there 
were,  undoubtedly,  certain  perceptible  spots  on 
them ;  but,  on  the  whole,  the  general  effect  of 

VOL.    I. E 


60  CAS  A    BBACCIO. 

the  doctor's  appearance  was  fashionable,  in  the 
fashion  of  several  years  earlier  and  judged  by  the 
standard  of  Subiaco.  He  wore  his  hair  rather 
long,  in  a  handsome  iron-grey  confusion,  his  face 
was  close-shaven,  and,  though  he  was  thin,  his 
complexion  was  somewhat  apoplectic. 

Having  duly  and  solemnly  finished  the  operation 
of  taking  snuff,  the  doctor  looked  at  the  peasant. 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  have  said  anything,"  he  ob 
served,  by  way  of  a  general  retractation.  "  These 
are  probably  follies." 

"  And  for  not  having  meant  to  say  anything,  you 
have  planted  this  knife  in  my  heart!"  retorted 
Stefanone,  the  veins  swelling  at  his  temples. 
"  Thank  you.  I  wish  to  die,  if  I  forget  it.  You 
tell  me  that  this  daughter  of  mine  is  making  love 
with  the  Englishman.  And  then  you  say  that  you 
do  not  wish  to  have  said  anything !  May  he  die, 
the  Englishman,  he,  and  whoever  made  him,  with 
the  whole  family !  An  evil  death  on  him  and  all 
his  house!" 

"  So  long  as  you  do  not  make  me  die,  too !  "  ex 
claimed  Sor  Tommaso,  with  rather  a  pitying  smile. 

"Eh!  To  die  —  it  is  soon  said!  And  yet, 
people  do  die.  You,  who  are  a  doctor,  should 
know  that.  And  you  do  not  wish  to  have  said 
anything !  Bravo,  doctor !  Words  are  words.  And 
yet  they  can  sting.  And  after  a  thousand  years, 
they  still  sting.  You  —  what  can  you  understand  ? 


CASA    BBACCIO.  51 

Are  you  perhaps  a  father  ?  You  have  not  even 
a  wife.  Oh,  blessed  be  God!  You  do  not  even 
know  what  you  are  saying.  You  know  nothing. 
You  think,  perhaps,  because  you  are  a  doctor,  that 
you  know  more  than  I  do.  I  will  tell  you  that  you 
are  an  ignorant ! " 

"  Oh,  beautiful ! "  cried  the  doctor,  angrily,  stung 
by  what  is  still  almost  a  mortal  insult.  "  You  — 
to  ine  —  ignorant !  Oh,  beautiful,  most  beautiful, 
this  !  From  a  peasant  to  a  man  of  science  !  Per 
haps  you  too  have  a  diploma  from  the  University 
of  the  Sapienza  — : 

"  If  I  had,  I  should  wrap  half  a  pound  of  sliced 
ham  —  fat  ham,  you  know  —  in  it,  for  the  first 
customer.  What  should  I  do  with  your  diplomas ! 
I  ask  you,  what  do  you  know  ?  Do  you  know  at 
all  what  a  daughter  is  ?  Blood  of  my  blood,  heart 
of  my  heart,  hand  of  this  hand.  But  I  am  a 
peasant,  and  you  are  a  doctor.  Therefore,  I  know 
nothing." 

"  And  meanwhile  you  give  me  '  ignorant '  in  my 
face  ! "  retorted  Sor  Tommaso. 

"Yes  —  and  I  repeat  it!"  cried  Stefanone,  lean 
ing  forwards,  his  clenched  hand  on  the  table.  "  I 
say  it  twice,  three  times  —  ignorant,  ignorant,  igno 
rant  !  Have  you  understood  ?  " 

"  Say  it  louder !  In  that  way  every  one  can  hear 
you !  Beast  of  a  sheep-grazer ! " 

"  And  you  —  crow-feeder  !     Furnisher  of  grave- 


52  CASA   BBACCIO. 

diggers  And  then  —  ignorant!  Oh  —  this  time 
I  have  said  it  clearly!" 

"  And  it  seems  to  me  that  it  is  enough ! "  roared 
the  doctor,  across  the  table.  "  Ciociaro !  Take 
that ! " 

"  Ciociaro  ?  I  ?  Oh,  your  soul !  If  I  get  hold 
of  you  with  my  hands ! " 

A  '  ciociaro '  is  a  hill-man  who  wears  '  cioce/  or 
rags,  bound  upon  his  feet  with  leathern  sandals  and 
thongs.  He  is  generally  a  shepherd,  and  is  held 
in  contempt  by  the  more  respectable  people  of  the 
larger  mountain  towns.  To  call  a  man  a  '  ciociaro ' 
is  a  bitter  insult. 

Stefanone  in  his  anger  had  half  risen  from  his 
seat.  But  the  wooden  bench  on  which  he  had  been 
sitting  was  close  to  the  wall  behind  him,  and  the 
heavy  oak  table  was  pushed  up  within  a  few  inches 
of  his  chest,  so  that  his  movements  were  consider 
ably  hampered  as  he  stretched  out  his  hands  rather 
wildly  towards  his  adversary.  The  latter,  who  pos 
sessed  more  moral  than  physical  courage,  moved 
his  chair  back  and  prepared  to  make  his  escape, 
if  Stefanone  showed  signs  of  coming  round  the 
table. 

At  that  moment  a  tall  figure  darkened  the  door 
that  opened  upon  the  street,  and  a  quiet,  dry  voice 
spoke  with  a  strong  foreign  accent.  It  was  Angus 
Dalrymple,  returning  from  a  botanizing  expedition 
in  the  hills,  after  being  absent  all  day. 


CASA    BBACCIO.  53 

"  That  is  a  very  uncomfortable  way  of  fighting," 
he  observed,  as  he  stood  still  in  the  doorway. 
"  You  cannot  hit  a  man  across  a  table  broader  than 
your  arm  is  long,  Signor  Stefano." 

The  effect  of  his  words  was  instantaneous.  Ste- 
fanone  fell  back  into  his  seat.  The  doctor's  anxious 
and  excited  expression  resolved  itself  instantly  into 
a  polite  smile. 

"  We  were  only  playing,"  he  said  suavely.  "  A 
little  discussion  —  a  mere  jest.  Our  friend  Stefa- 
none  was  explaining  something." 

"  If  the  table  had  been  narrower,  he  would  have 
explained  you  away  altogether,"  observed  Dalrym- 
ple,  coming  forward. 

He  laid  a  tin  box  which  he  had  with  him  upon 
the  table,  and  shook  hands  with  Sor  Tommaso. 
Then  he  slipped  behind  the  table  and  sat  down 
close  to  his  host,  as  a  precautionary  measure  in 
case  the  play  should  be  resumed.  Stefauone  would 
have  had  a  bad  chance  of  being  dangerous,  if  the 
powerful  Scotchman  chose  to  hold  him  down.  But 
the  peasant  seemed  to  have  become  as  suddenly 
peaceful  as  the  doctor. 

"  It  was  nothing,"  said  Stefanone,  quietly  enough, 
though  his  eyes  were  bloodshot  and  glanced  about 
the  room  in  an  unsettled  way. 

At  that  moment  Annetta  entered  from  a  door 
leading  to  the  staircase.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  on 
Dalrymple's  face  as  she  came  forward,  carrying 


54  CAS  A    BBACCIO. 

a  polished  brass  lamp,  with  three  burning  wicks, 
which  she  placed  upon  the  table.  Dalryniple  looked 
up  at  her,  and  seeing  her  expression  of  inquiry, 
slowly  nodded.  With  a  laugh  which  drew  her  long 
red-brown  lips  back  from  her  short  white  teeth,  the 
girl  produced  a  small  flask  and  a  glass,  which  she 
had  carried  behind  her  and  out  of  sight  when  she 
came  in.  She  set  them  before  Dalryniple. 

"I  saw  you  coming,"  she  said,  and  laughed  again. 
"  And  then  —  it  is  always  the  same.  Half  a  '  fogli- 
etta '  of  the  old,  just  for  the  appetite." 

Sor  Tommaso  glanced  at  Stefanoue  in  a  meaning 
way,  but  the  girl's  father  affected  not  to  see  him. 
Dalryinple  nodded  his  thanks,  poured  a  few  drops 
of  wine  into  the  glass  and  scattered  them  upon  the 
brick  floor  according  to  the  ancient  custom,  both 
for  rinsing  the  glass  and  as  a  libation,  and  then 
offered  to  fill  the  glasses  of  each  of  the  two  men, 
who  smiled,  shook  their  heads,  and  covered  their 
tumblers  with  their  right  hands.  At  last  Dalrym 
ple  helped  himself,  nodded  politely  to  his  com 
panions,  and  slowly  emptied  the  glass  which  held 
almost  all  the  contents  of  the  little  flask.  The 
'foglietta,'  or  'leaflet'  of  wine,  is  said  to  have 
been  so  called  from  the  twisted  and  rolled  vine 
leaf  which  generally  serves  it  for  a  stopper.  A 
whole  '  f oglietta '  contained  a  scant  pint. 

"Will  you  eat  now?"  asked  Annetta,  still 
smiling. 


CAS  A    BRACCIO.  55 

"Presently,"  answered  Dalrymple.  "What  is 
there  to  eat  ?  I  am  hungry." 

"It  seems  that  you  have  to  say  so!"  laughed 
the  girl.  "  It  is  a  new  thing.  There  is  beefsteak 
or  mutton,  if  you  wish  to  know.  And  ham  —  a 
fresh  ham  cut  to-day.  It  is  one  of  the  Grape- 
eater's,  and  it  seems  good.  You  remember,  Sor 
Tommaso,  the  —  speaking  with  respect  to  your 
face — the  pig  we  called  the  Grape-eater  last  year? 
Speaking  with  respect,  he  was  a  good  pig.  It  is 
one  of  his  hams  that  we  have  cut.  There  is  also 
salad,  and  fresh  bread,  which  you  like.  And  wine, 
I  will  not  speak  of  it.  Eh,  he  likes  wine,  the  Eng 
lishman!  He  conies  in  with  a  long,  long  face  — 
and  when  he  goes  to  bed,  his  face  is  wide,  wide. 
That  is  the  wine.  But  then,  it  does  nothing  else 
to  him.  It  only  changes  his  face.  When  I  look 
at  him,  I  seem  to  see  the  moon  waxing." 

"  You  talk  too  much,"  said  Stefanone. 

"Never  mind,  papa!  Words  are  not  pennies. 
The  more  one  wastes,  the  more  one  has ! " 

Dalrymple  said  nothing ;  but  he  smiled  as  she 
turned  lightly  with  a  toss  of  her  small  dark  head 
and  left  the  room. 

"Fine  blood,"  observed  the  doctor,  with  a  con 
ciliatory  glance  at  the  girl's  father. 

"  You  will  be  wanted  before  long,  Sor  Tommaso," 
said  Dalrymple,  gravely.  "  I  hear  that  the  abbess 
is  very  ill." 


56  CASA    BRACCIO. 

The  doctor  looked  up  with  sudden  interest,  and 
put  on  his  professional  expression. 

"The  abbess,  you  say?  Dear  me!  She  is  not 
young!  What  has  she?  Who  told  you,  Sor 
Angoscia  ?  " 

Now,  'Sor  Angoscia'  signifies  in  English  'Sir 
Anguish,'  but  the  doctor  in  spite  of  really  con 
scientious  efforts  could  not  get  nearer  to  the  pro 
nunciation  of  Angus.  Nevertheless,  with  northern 
persistency,  Dalrymple  corrected  him  for  the  hun 
dredth  time.  The  doctor's  first  attempt  had 
resulted  in  his  calling  the  Scotchman  'Sor  Lan- 
gusta,'  which  means  'Sir  Crayfish'  —  and  it  must 
be  admitted  that  'Anguish'  was  an  improvement. 

"  Angus,"  said  Dalrymple.  "  My  name  is  Angus. 
The  abbess  has  caught  a  severe  cold  from  sitting 
in  a  draught  when  she  was  overheated.  It  has 
immediately  settled  on  her  lungs,  and  you  may  be 
sent  for  at  any  moment.  I  passed  by  the  back 
of  the  convent  on  my  way  down,  and  the  gardener 
was  just  coming  out  of  the  postern.  He  told  me." 

"  Dear  me,  dear  me ! "  exclaimed  Sor  Tommaso, 
shaking  his  head.  "Cold  —  bronchitis,  pleurisy, 
pneumonia  —  it  is  soon  done !  One  would  be  enough ! 
Those  nuns,  what  do  they  eat  ?  A  little  grass,  a 
little  boiled  paste,  a  little  broth  of  meat  on  Sundays. 
What  strength  should  they  have  ?  And  then  pray, 
pray,  sing,  sing!  It  needs  a  chest!  Poor  lungs! 
I  will  go  to  my  home  and  get  ready  —  blisters  — 


CAS  A   Bit  AC  CIO.  57 

mustard  —  a  lancet  —  they  will  not  allow  a  barber 
in  the  convent  to  bleed  them.  Well  —  I  make  my 
self  the  barber !  What  a  life,  what  a  life  !  If  you 
wish  to  die  young,  be  a  doctor  at  Subiaco,  Sor 
Angoscia.  Good  night,  dear  friend.  Good  night, 
Stefanone.  I  wish  not  to  have  said  anything  — 
you  know  —  that  little  affair.  Let  us  speak  no 
more  about  it.  I  am  more  beast  than  you,  because 
I  said  anything.  Good  night." 

Sor  Tommaso  got  his  stick  from  a  dark  corner, 
pressed  his  broad  catskin  hat  upon  his  head,  and 
took  his  respectability  away  on  its  tightly  encased 
black  legs. 

"And  may  the  devil  go  with  you,"  said  Stefa 
none,  under  his  breath,  as  the  doctor  disappeared. 

"Why?"  inquired  Dalryrnple,  who  had  caught 
the  words. 

"  I  said  nothing,"  answered  the  peasant,  thought 
fully  trimming  one  wick  of  the  lamp  with  the  bent 
brass  wire  which,  with  the  snuffers,  hung  by  a 
chain  from  the  ring  by  which  the  lamp  was  carried. 

"I  thought  you  spoke,"  said  the  Scotchman. 
"  Well  —  the  abbess  is  very  ill,  and  Sor  Toramaso 
has  a  job." 

"May  he  do  it  well!  So  that  it  need  not  be 
begun  again." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  Dalrymple  slowly 
sipped  the  remains  of  his  little  measure  of  wine. 

"  Those  nuns  ! "  exclaimed  Stefanone,  instead  of 


58  CASA   BRACCIO. 

answering  the  question.  "  What  are  they  here  to 
do,  in  this  world  ?  Better  make  saints  of  them  — 
and  good  night !  There  would  be  one  misery  less. 
Do  you  know  what  they  do  ?  They  make  wine. 
Good!  But  they  do  not  drink  it.  They  sell  it 
for  a  farthing  less  by  the  f oglietta  than  other  people. 
The  devil  take  them  and  their  wine ! " 

Dalrymple  glanced  at  the  angry  peasant  with 
some  amusement,  but  did  not  make  any  answer. 

"Eh,  Signore!"  cried  Stefanone.  "You  who 
are  a  foreigner  and  a  Protestant,  can  you  not  say 
something,  since  it  would  be  no  sin  for  you  ?  " 

"I  was  thinking  of  something  to  say,  Signor 
Stefanone.  But  as  for  that,  who  does  the  business 
for  the  convent?  They  cannot  do  it  themselves, 
I  suppose.  Who  determines  the  price  of  their 
wine  for  them  ?  Or  the  price  of  their  corn  ?  " 

"  They  are  not  so  stupid  as  you  think.  Oh,  no ! 
They  are  not  stupid,  the  nuns.  They  know  the 
price  of  this,  and  the  cost  of  that,  just  as  well  as 
you  and  I  do.  But  Gigetto's  father,  Sor  Agostino, 
is  their  steward,  if  that  is  what  you  wish  to 
know.  And  his  father  was  before  him,  and  Gigetto 
will  be  after  him,  with  his  pumpkin-head.  And 
the  rest  is  sung  by  the  organ,  as  we  say  when 
mass  is  over.  For  you  know  about  Gigetto  and 
Annetta." 

"Yes.  And  as  you  cannot  quarrel  with  Sor 
Agostino  on  that  account,  I  do  not  see  but  that 


CAS  A    B  BAG  CIO.  59 

you  will  either  have  to  bear  it,  or  sell  your  wine 
a  farthing  cheaper  than  that  of  the  nuns." 

"  Eh  —  that  is  soon  said.  A  farthing  cheaper 
than  theirs !  That  means  half  a  baiocco  cheaper 
than  I  sell  it  now.  And  the  best  is  only  five 
baiocchi  the  foglietta,  and  the  cheapest  is  two  and 
a  half.  Good  bye  profit  —  a  pleasant  journey  to 
Stefanone.  But  it  is  those  nuns.  They  are  to 
blame,  and  the  devil  will  pay  them." 

"In  that  case  you  need  not,"  observed  Dalrym- 
ple,  rising.  "  I  am  going  to  wash  my  hands  before 
supper." 

"At  your  pleasure,  Signore,"  answered  Stefanone, 
politely. 

As  Dalrymple  went  out,  Annetta  passed  him  at 
the  door,  bringing  in  plates  and  napkins,  and 
knives  and  forks.  The  girl  glanced  at  his  face  as 
he  went  by. 

"Be  quick,  Signore,"  she  said  with  a  laugh. 
"  The  beefsteak  of  mutton  is  grilling." 

He  nodded,  and  went  up  the  dark  stairs,  his 
heavy  shoes  sending  back  echoes  as  he  trod. 
Stefanone  still  sat  at  the  table,  turning  the  glass 
wine  measure  upside  down  over  his  tumbler,  to 
let  the  last  drops  run  out.  He  watched  them  as 
they  fell,  one  by  one,  without  looking  up  at  his 
daughter,  who  began  to  arrange  the  plates  for 
Dalrymple's  meal. 

"I  will  teach  you  to  make  love  with  the  English- 


60  CASA   BEACCIO. 

man,"  lie  said  slowly,  still  watching  the  dropping 
wine. 

"  Me ! "  cried  Annetta,  with  real  or  feigned 
astonishment,  and  she  tossed  a  knife  and  fork 
angrily  into  a  plate,  with  a  loud,  clattering  noise. 

"  I  am  speaking  with  you,"  answered  her  father, 
without  raising  his  eyes.  "  Do  you  know  ?  You 
will  come  to  a  bad  end." 

"  Thank  you ! "  replied  the  girl,  contemptuously. 
"  If  you  say  so,  it  must  be  true !  Now,  who  has 
told  you  that  the  Englishman  is  making  love  to 
me  ?  An  apoplexy  on  him,  whoever  he  may  be !  " 

"  Pretty  words  for  a  girl !  Sor  Tommaso  told 
me.  A  little  more,  and  I  would  have  torn  his 
tongue  out.  Just  then,  the  Englishman  came  in. 
Sor  Tommaso  got  off  easily." 

The  girl's  tone  changed  very  much  when  she 
spoke  again,  and  there  was  a  dull  and  angry  light 
in  her  eyes.  Her  long  lips  were  still  parted,  and 
showed  her  gleaming  teeth,  but  the  smile  was 
altogether  gone. 

"Yes.  Too  easily,"  she  said,  almost  in  a  whis 
per,  and  there  was  a  low  hiss  in  the  words. 

"In  the  meanwhile,  it  is  true  —  what  he  said," 
continued  Stefanone.  "You  make  eyes  at  him. 
You  wait  for  him  and  watch  for  him  when  he 
comes  back  from  the  mountains  —  " 

"  Well  ?  Is  it  not  my  place  to  serve  him  with 
his  supper  ?  If  you  are  not  satisfied,  hire  a  ser- 


CAS  A   BBACC1O.  61 

vant  to  wait  on  him.  You  are  rich.  What  do  I 
care  for  the  Englishman?  Perhaps  it  is  a  pleas 
ure  to  roast  my  face  over  the  charcoal,  cooking 
his  meat  for  him.  As  for  Sor  Tommaso  —  " 

She  stopped  short  in  her  speech.  Her  father 
knew  what  the  tone  meant,  and  looked  up  for  the 
first  time. 

"  0-e ! "  he  exclaimed,  as  one  suddenly  aware  of 
a  danger,  and  warning  some  one  else. 

"Nothing,"  answered  Annetta,  looking  down  and 
arranging  the  knives  and  forks  symmetrically  on 
the  clean  cloth  she  had  laid. 

"I  might  have  killed  him  just  now  in  hot  blood, 
when  the  Englishman  came  in,"  said  Stefanone, 
reflectively.  "  But  now  my  blood  has  grown  cold. 
I  shall  do  nothing  to  him." 

"  So  much  the  better  for  him."  She  still  spoke 
in  a  low  voice,  as  she  turned  away  from  the  table. 

"  But  I  will  kill  you,"  said  Stefanone,  "  if  I  see 
you  making  eyes  at  the  Englishman." 

He  rose,  and  taking  up  his  hat,  which  lay  beside 
him,  he  edged  his  way  out  along  the  wooden  bench, 
moving  cautiously  lest  he  should  shake  the  table 
and  upset  the  lamp  or  the  bottles.  Annetta  had 
turned  again,  at  the  threat  he  had  uttered,  and 
stood  still,  waiting  for  him  to  get  out  into  the 
room,  her  hands  on  her  hips,  and  her  eyes  on  fire. 

"  You  will  kill  me  ?  "  she  asked,  just  as  he  was 
opposite  to  her.  "Well  —  kill  me,  then!  Here 


62  CAS  A    B  BAG  CIO. 

I  am.  What  are  you  waiting  for  ?  For  the  Eng 
lishman  to  interfere?  He  is  washing  his  hands. 
He  always  takes  a  long  time." 

"Then  it  is  true  that  you  have  fallen  in  love 
with  him  ?  "  asked  Stefanone,  his  anger  returning. 

"Him,  or  another.  What  does  it  matter  to 
you  ?  You  remind  me  of  the  old  woman  who  beat 
her  cat,  and  then  cried  when  it  ran  away.  If  you 
want  me  to  stay  at  home,  you  had  better  find  me 
a  husband." 

"Do  you  want  anything  better  than  Gigetto? 
Apoplexy !  But  you  have  ideas  ! " 

"  You  are  making  a  good  business  of  it  with 
Gigetto,  in  truth ! "  cried  the  girl,  scornfully.  "He 
eats,  he  drinks,  and  then  he  sings.  But  he  does 
not  marry.  He  will  not  even  make  love  to  me 
—  not  even  with  an  eye.  And  then,  because  I  love 
the  Englishman,  who  is  a  great  lord,  though  he 
says  he  is  a  doctor,  I  must  die.  Well,  kill  me ! " 
She  stared  insolently  at  her  father  for  a  moment. 
"Oh,  well,"  she  added  scornfully,  "if  you  have 
not  time  now,  it  must  be  for  to-morrow.  I  am 
busy." 

She  turned  on  her  heel  with  a  disdainful  fling 
of  her  short,  dark  skirt.  Stefanone  was  exas 
perated,  and  his  anger  had  returned.  Before  she 
was  out  of  reach,  he  struck  her  with  his  open 
hand.  Instead  of  striking  her  cheek,  the  blow  fell 
upon  the  back  of  her  head  and  neck,  and  sent  her 


GAB  A   BEACCIO.  63 

stumbling  forwards.  She  caught  the  back  of  a 
chair,  steadied  herself,  and  turned  again  instantly, 
at  her  full  height,  not  deigning  to  raise  her  hand 
to  the  place  that  hurt  her. 

"Coward!"  she  exclaimed.  "But  I  will  pay 
you  —  and  Sor  Tommaso  —  for  that  blow." 

"Whenever  you  like,"  answered  her  father 
gruffly,  but  already  sorry  for  what  he  had  done. 

He  turned  his  back,  and  went  out  into  the  night. 
It  was  now  almost  quite  dark,  and  Annetta  stood 
still  by  the  chair,  listening  to  his  retreating  foot 
steps.  Then  she  slowly  turned  and  gazed  at  the 
flaring  wicks  of  the  lamp.  With  a  gesture  that 
suggested  the  movement  of  a  young  animal,  she 
rubbed  the  back  of  her  neck  with  one  hand  and 
leisurely  turned  her  head  first  to  one  side  and  then 
to  the  other.  Her  brown  skin  was  unusually  pale, 
but  there  was  no  moisture  in  her  eyes  as  she  stared 
at  the  lamp. 

"  But  I  will  pay  you,  Sor  Tommaso,"  she  said 
thoughtfully  and  softly. 

Then  turning  her  eyes  from  the  lamp  at  last,  she 
took  up  one  of  the  knives  from  the  table,  looked  at 
it,  felt  the  edge,  and  laid  it  down  contemptuously. 
In  those  days  all  the  respectable  peasants  in  the 
Roman  villages  had  solid  silver  forks  and  spoons, 
which  have  long  since  gone  to  the  melting-pot  to 
pay  taxes.  But  they  used  the  same  blunt,  pointless 
knives  with  wooden  handles,  which  they  use  to-day. 


64  CASA    BBACCIO. 

Annetta  started,  as  she  heard  Dairy m  pie's  tread 
upon  the  stone  steps  of  the  staircase,  but  she  re 
covered  herself  instantly,  gave  a  finishing  touch 
to  the  table,  rubbed  the  back  of  her  head  quickly 
once  more,  and  met  him  with  a  smile. 

"  Is  the  beefsteak  of  mutton  ready  ?  "  inquired 
the  Scotchman,  cheerfully,  with  his  extraordinary 
accent. 

Annetta  ran  past  him,  and  returned  almost 
before  he  was  seated,  bringing  the  food.  The  girl 
sat  down  at  the  end  of  the  table,  opposite  the 
street  door,  and  watched  him  as  he  swallowed 
one  mouthful  of  meat  after  another,  now  and  then 
stopping  to  drink  a  tumbler  of  wine  at  a  draught. 

"You  must  be  very  strong,  Signore,"  said  An- 
uetta,  at  last,  her  chin  resting  on  her  doubled  hand. 

"  Why  ?  "  inquired  Dalrymple,  carelessly,  be 
tween  two  mouthfuls. 

"  Because  you  eat  so  much.  It  must  be  a  tine 
thing  to  eat  so  much  meat.  We  eat  very  little 
of  it." 

"  Why  ? "  asked  the  Scotchman,  again  between 
his  mouthfuls. 

"  Oh,  who  knows  ?  It  costs  much.  That  must 
be  the  reason.  Besides,  it  does  not  go  down.  I 
should  not  care  for  it." 

"It  is  a  habit."  Dalrymple  drank.  "In  my 
country  most  of  the  people  eat  oats,"  he  said,  as 
he  set  down  his  glass. 


CAS  A   BBACCIO.  65 

"  Oats  ! "  laughed  the  girl.  "  Like  horses  !  But 
horses  will  eat  meat,  too,  like  you.  As  for  me  — 
good  bread,  fresh  cheese,  a  little  salad,  a  drink  of 
wine  and  water — that  is  enough." 

"  Like  the  nuns,"  observed  Dalrymple,  attacking 
the  ham  of  the  '  Grape-eater.' 

"  Oh,  the  nuns  !  They  live  on  boiled  cabbage ! 
You  can  smell  it  a  mile  away.  But  they  make 
good  cakes." 

"  You  often  go  to  the  convent,  do  you  not  ? " 
asked  the  Scotchman,  filling  his  glass,  for  the  first 
mouthful  of  ham  made  him  thirsty  again.  "  You 
take  the  linen  up  with  your  mother,  I  know." 

"  Sometimes,  when  I  feel  like  going,"  answered 
the  girl,  willing  to  show  that  it  was  not  her  duty 
to  carry  baskets.  "  I  only  go  when  we  have  the 
small  baskets  that  one  can  carry  on  one's  head.  I 
will  tell  you.  They  use  the  small  baskets  for  the 
finer  things,  the  abbess's  linen,  and  the  altar  cloths, 
and  the  chaplain's  lacfi,  which  belongs  to  the  nuns. 
But  the  sheets  and  the  table  linen  are  taken  up  in 
baskets  as  long  as  a  man.  It  takes  four  women  to 
carry  one  of  them." 

"That  must  be  very  inconvenient,"  said  Dal 
rymple.  "  I  should  think  that  smaller  ones  would 
always  be  better." 

"  Who  knows  ?  It  has  always  been  so.  And 
when  it  has  always  been  so,  it  will  always  be  so  — 
one  knows  that." 

VOL.   I.  —  F 


66  CASA   BBACCIO. 

Annetta  nodded  her  head  rhythmically  to  convey 
an  impression  of  the  immutability  of  all  ancient 
customs  and  of  this  one  in  particular. 

Dalrymple,  however,  was  not  much  interested 
in  the  question  of  the  baskets. 

"  What  do  the  nuns  do  all  day  ?  "  he  asked.  "  I 
suppose  you  see  them,  sometimes.  There  must  be 
young  ones  amongst  them." 

Annetta  glanced  more  keenly  at  the  Scotchman's 
quiet  face,  and  then  laughed. 

"  There  is  one,  if  you  could  see  her !  The 
abbess's  niece.  Oh,  that  one  is  beautiful.  She 
seems  to  me  a  painted  angel ! " 

"  The  abbess's  niece  ?  What  is  she  like  ?  Let 
me  see,  the  abbess  is  a  princess,  is  she  not  ?  " 

"Yes,  a  great  princess  of  the  Princes  of  Gerano, 
of  Casa  Braccio,  you  know.  They  are  always 
abbesses.  And  the  young  one  will  be  the  next, 
when  this  one  dies.  She  is  Maria  Adclolorata,  in 
religion,  but  I  do  not  know  her  real  name.  She 
has  a  beautiful  face  and  dark  eyes.  Once  I  saw 
her  hair  for  a  moment.  It  is  fair,  but  not  like 
yours.  Yours  is  red  as  a  tomato." 

"Thank -you,"  said  Dalrymple,  with  something 
like  a  laugh.  "  Tell  me  more  about  the  nun." 

"  If  I  tell  you,  you  will  fall  in  love  with  her," 
objected  Annetta.  "  They  say  that  men  with  red 
hair  fall  in  love  easily.  Is  it  true  ?  If  it  is,  I 
will  not  tell  you  any  more  about  the  nun.  But 


CAS  A   BBACCIO.  67 

I  think  you  are  in  love  with  the  poor  old  Grape- 
eater.  It  is  good  ham,  is  it  not?  By  Bacchus, 
I  fed  him  on  chestnuts  with  my  own  hands,  and 
he  was  always  stealing  the  grapes.  Chestnuts  fat 
tened  him  and  the  grapes  made  him  sweet.  Speak 
ing  with  respect,  he  was  a  pig  for  a  pope." 

"He  will  do  for  a  Scotch  doctor  then,"  answered 
Dalrymple.  "Tell  me,  what  does  this  beautiful 
nun  do  all  day  long  ?  " 

"  What  does  she  do  ?  What  can  a  nun  do  ?  She 
eats  cabbage  and  prays  like  the  others.  But  she 
has  charge  of  all  the  convent  linen,  so  I  see  her 
when  I  go  with  my  mother.  That  is  because 
the  Princes  of  Gerano  first  gave  the  linen  to  the 
convent  after  it  was  all  stolen  by  the  Turks  in 
1798.  So,  as  they  gave  it,  their  abbesses  take  care 
of  it." 

Dalrymple  laughed  at  the  extraordinary  his 
torical  allusion  compounded  of  the  very  ancient 
traditions  of  the  Saracens  in  the  south,  and  of  the 
more  recent  wars  of  Xapoleon. 

"  So  she  takes  care  of  the  linen,"  he  said.  "  That 
cannot  be  very  amusing,  I  should  think." 

"  They  are  nuns,"  answered  the  girl.  "  Do  you 
suppose  they  go  about  seeking  to  amuse  them 
selves  ?  It  is  an  ugly  life.  But  Sister  Maria 
Addolorata  sings  to  herself,  and  that  makes  the 
abbess  angry,  because  it  is  against  the  rules  to  sing 
except  in  church.  I  would  not  live  in  that  con- 


68  CASA   SBACCIO. 

vent  —  not  if  they  would  fill  my  apron  with  gold 
pieces." 

"  But  why  did  this  beautiful  girl  become  a  nun, 
then  ?  Was  she  unhappy,  or  crossed  in  love  ?  " 

"  She  ?  They  did  not  give  her  time !  Before 
she  could  shut  an  eye  and  say,  'Little  youth,  you 
please  me,  and  I  wish  you  well,'  they  put  her  in. 
And  that  door,  when  it  is  shut,  who  shall  open  it  ? 
The  Madonna,  perhaps  ?  But  she  was  of  the 
Princes  of  Gerano,  and  there  must  be  one  of  them 
for  an  abbess,  and  the  lot  fell  upon  her.  There 
is  the  whole  history.  You  may  hear  her  singing 
sometimes,  if  you  stand  under  the  garden  wall, 
on  the  narrow  path  after  the  Benediction  hour  and 
before  Ave  Maria.  But  I  am  a  fool  to  tell  you, 
for  you  will  go  and  listen,  and  when  you  have 
heard  her  voice  you  will  be  like  a  madman.  You 
will  fall  in  love  with  her.  I  was  a  fool  to  tell 
you." 

"Well  ?  And  if  I  do  fall  in  love  with  her,  who 
cares  ?  "  Dalrymple  slowly  filled  a  glass  of  wine. 

"  If  you  do  ? "  The  young  girl's  eyes  shot  a 
quick,  sharp  glance  at  him.  Then  her  face  sud 
denly  grew  grave  as  she  saw  that  some  one  was  at 
the  street  door,  looking  in  cautiously.  "  Come  in, 
Sor  Tommaso  ! "  she  called,  down  the  table.  "  Papa 
is  out,  but  we  are  here.  Come  in  and  drink  a  glass 
of  wine!" 

The  doctor,  wrapped  in  a  long  broadcloth  cloak 


CAS  A    BBACCIO.  69 

with  a  velvet  collar,  and  having  a  case  of  instru 
ments  and  medicines  under  his  arm,  glanced  round 
the  room  and  came  in. 

"Just  a  half-foglietta,  my  daughter,"  he  said. 
"They  have  sent  for  me.  The  abbess  is  very  ill, 
and  I  may  be  there  a  long  time.  If  you  think  they 
would  remember  to  offer  a  Christian  a  glass  up 
there,  you  are  very  much  mistaken." 

"  They  are  nuns,"  laughed  Annetta.  "What  can 
they  know  ?  " 

She  rose  to  get  the  wine  for  the  doctor.  There 
had  not  been  a  trace  of  displeasure  in  her  voice 
nor  in  her  manner  as  she  spoke. 


CHAPTEE   IV. 

SOR  TOMMASO  was  rarely  called  to  the  convent. 
In  fact,  he  could  not  remember  that  he  had  been 
wanted  more  than  half  a  dozen  times  in  the  long 
course  of  his  practice  in  Subiaco.  Either  the  nuns 
were  hardly  ever  ill,  or  else  they  must  have  doc 
tored  themselves  with  such  simple  remedies  as 
had  been  handed  down  to  them  from  former  ages. 
Possibly  they  had  been  as  well  off  on  the  whole  as 
though  they  had  systematically  submitted  to  the 
heroic  treatment  which  passed  for  medicine  in 
those  days.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  they  suffered 
chiefly  from  bad  colds;  and  when  they  had  bad 
colds,  they  either  got  well,  or  died,  according  to 
their  several  destinies.  Sor  Tommaso  might  have 
saved  some  of  them  ;  but  on  the  other  hand,  he 
might  have  helped  some  others  rather  precipitately 
from  their  cells  to  that  deep  crypfc,  closed,  in  the 
middle  of  the  little  church,  by  a  single  square  flag 
of  marble,  having  two  brass  studs  in  it,  and  bear 
ing  the  simple  inscription :  '  Here  lie  the  bones  of 
the  Keverend  Sisters  of  the  order  of  the  Blessed 
Virgin  Mary  of  Mount  Carinel.'  On  the  whole,  it 
is  doubtful  whether  the  practice  of  not  calling  in 
70 


CA8A   BEACCIO.  71 

the  doctor  on  ordinary  occasions  had  much  influ 
ence  upon  the  convent's  statistics  of  mortality. 

But  though  the  abbess  had  more  than  once  had  a 
cold  in  her  life,  she  had  never  suffered  so  seriously 
as  this  time,  and  she  had  made  little  objection  to 
her  niece's  strong  representations  as  to  the  neces 
sity  of  medical  aid.  Therefore  Sor  Tommaso  had 
been  sent  for  in  the  evening  and  in  great  haste,  and 
had  taken  with  him  a  supply  of  appropriate  mate 
rial  sufficient  to  kill,  if  not  to  cure,  half  the  nuns 
in  the  convent.  All  the  circumstances  which  he 
remembered  from  former  occasions  were  accurately 
repeated.  He  rang  at  the  main  gate,  waited  long 
in  the  darkness,  and  heard  at  last  the  slapping  and 
shuffling  of  shoes  along  the  pavement  within,  as 
the  portress  and  another  nun  came  to  let  him  in. 
Then  there  were  faint  rays  of  light  from  their 
little  lamp,  quivering  through  the  cracks  of  the 
old  weather-beaten  door  upon  the  cracked  marble 
steps  on  which  Sor  Tommaso  was  standing.  A 
thin  voice  asked  who  was  there,  and  Sor  Tommaso 
answered  that  he  was  the  doctor.  Then  he  heard 
a  little  colloquy  in  suppressed  tones  between  the 
two  nuns.  The  one  said  that  the  doctor  was 
expected  and  must  be  let  in  without  question. 
The  other  observed  that  it  might  be  a  thief. 
The  first  said  that  in  that  case  they  must  look 
through  the  loophole.  The  second  said  that  she 
did  not  know  the  doctor  by  sight.  The  first 


72  CASA   BBACCIO, 

speaker  remarked  with  some  truth  that  one  could 
tell  a  respectable  person  from  a  highwayman,  and 
suddenly  a  small  square  porthole  in  the  door  was 
opened  inwards,  and  a  stream  of  light  fell  upon  Sor 
Tommaso's  face,  as  the  nuns  held  up  their  little  flar 
ing  lamp  behind  the  grating.  Behind  the  lamp  he 
could  distinguish  a  pair  of  shadowy  eyes  under  an 
overhanging  veil,  which  was  also  drawn  across  the 
lower  part  of  the  face. 

"  Are  you  really  the  doctor  ? "  asked  one  of  the 
voices,  in  a  doubtful  tone. 

"  He  himself,"  answered  the  physician.  "  I  am 
the  Doctor  Tommaso  Taddei  of  the  University  of 
the  Sapienza,  and  I  have  been  called  to  render 
assistance  to  the  very  reverend  the  Mother  Abbess." 

The  light  disappeared,  and  the  porthole  was 
shut,  while  a  second  colloquy  began.  On  the 
whole,  the  two  nuns  decided  to  let  him  in,  and 
then  there  was  a  jingling  of  keys  and  a  clanking 
of  iron  bars  and  a  grinding  of  locks,  and  presently 
a  small  door,  cut  and  hung  in  one  leaf  of  the 
great,  iron-studded,  wooden  gate,  was  swung  back. 
Sor  Tommaso  stooped  and  held  his  case  before 
him,  for  the  entrance  was  low  and  narrow. 

"  God  be  praised ! "  he  exclaimed,  when  he  was 
fairly  inside. 

"  And  praised  be  His  holy  name,"  answered  both 
the  sisters,  promptly. 

Both  had  dropped  their  veils,  and  proceeded  to 


CASA   BEACCIO.  73 

bolt  and  bar  the  little  door  again,  having  set  down 
the  lamp  upon  the  pavement.  The  rays  made  the 
unctuous  dampness  of  the  stone  flags  glisten,  and 
Sor  Tommaso  shivered  in  his  broadcloth  cloak. 
Then,  as  before,  he  was  conducted  in  silence 
through  arched  ways,  and  up  many  steps,  and 
along  labyrinthine  corridors,  his  strong  shoes  rous 
ing  sharp,  metallic  echoes,  while  the  nuns'  slippers 
slapped  and  shuffled  as  one  walked  on  each  side  of 
him,  the  one  on  the  left  carrying  the  lamp,  accord 
ing  to  the  ancient  rules  of  politeness.  At  last 
they  reached  the  door  of  the  antechamber  at  the 
end  of  the  corridor,  through  which  the  way  led  to 
the  abbess's  private  apartment,  consisting  of  three 
rooms.  The  last  door  on  the  left,  as  Sor  Tommaso 
faced  that  which  opened  into  the  antechamber,  was 
that  of  Maria  Addolorata's  cell.  The  linen  presses 
were  entered  from  within  the  anteroom  by  a  door 
on  the  right,  so  that  they  were  actually  in  the 
abbess's  apartment,  an  old-fashioned  and  some 
what  inconvenient  arrangement.  Maria  Addolo- 
rata,  her  veil  drawn  down,  so  that  she  could  not 
see  the  doctor,  but  only  his  feet,  and  the  folds  of 
it  drawn  across  her  chin  and  mouth,  received  him 
at  the  door,  which  she  closed  behind  him.  The 
other  two  nuns  set  down  their  lamp  on  the  floor  of 
the  corridor,  slipped  their  hands  up  their  sleeves, 
and  stood  waiting  outside. 

The  abbess  was  very  ill,  but  had  insisted  upon 


74  CA8A   BBACCIO. 

sitting  up  in  her  parlour  to  receive  the  doctor, 
dressed  and  veiled,  being  propped  up  in  her  great 
easy-chair  with  a  pillow  which  was  of  green  silk, 
but  was  covered  with  a  white  pillow-case  finely 
embroidered  with  open  work  at  each  end,  through 
which  the  vivid  colour  was  visible  —  that  high 
green  which  cannot  look  blue  even  by  lamplight. 
Both  in  the  anteroom  and  in  the  parlour  there 
were  polished  silver  lamps  of  precisely  the  same 
pattern  as  the  brass  ones  used  by  the  richer 
peasants,  excepting  that  each  had  a  fan-like  shield 
of  silver  to  be  used  as  a  shade  on  one  side,  bearing 
the  arms  of  the  Braccio  family  in  high  boss,  and 
attached  to  the  oil  vessel  by  a  movable  curved  arm. 
The  furniture  of  the  room  was  very  simple,  but 
there  was  nevertheless  a  certain  ecclesiastical 
solemnity  about  the  high-backed,  carved,  and  gilt 
chairs,  the  black  and  white  marble  pavement,  the 
great  portrait  of  his  Holiness,  Gregory  the  Six 
teenth,  in  its  massive  gilt  frame,  the  superb  silver 
crucifix  which  stood  on  the  writing-table,  and, 
altogether,  in  the  solidity  of  everything  which  met 
the  eye. 

It  was  no  easy  matter  to  ascertain  the  good 
lady's  condition,  muffled  up  and  veiled  as  she  was. 
It  was  only  as  an  enormous  concession  to  necessity 
that  Sor  Tommaso  was  allowed  to  feel  her  pulse, 
and  it  needed  all  Maria  Addolorata's  eloquent  per 
suasion  and  sensible  argument  to  induce  her  to  lift 
her  veil  a  little,  and  open  her  mouth. 


CASA   BEACCIO.  75 

"  Your  most  reverend  excellency  must  be  cured  by 
proxy,"  said  Sor  Tommaso,  at  his  wit's  end.  "If 
this  reverend  mother,"  he  added,  turning  to  the 
young  nun,  "will  carry  out  my  directions,  some 
thing  may  be  done.  Your  most  reverend  excel 
lency's  life  is  in  danger.  Your  most  reverend 
excellency  ought  to  be  in  bed." 

"  It  is  the  will  of  Heaven,"  said  the  abbess,  in  a 
very  weak  and  hoarse  voice. 

"Tell  me  what  to  do,"  said  Maria  Addolorata. 
"  It  shall  be  done  as  though  you  yourself  did  it." 

Sor  Tommaso  was  encouraged  by  the  tone  of  as 
surance  in  which  the  words  were  spoken,  and  pro 
ceeded  to  give  his  directions,  which  were  many,  and 
his  recommendations,  which  were  almost  endless. 

"But  if  your  most  reverend  excellency  would 
allow  me  to  assist  you  in  person,  the  remedies 
would  be  more  efficacious,"  he  suggested,  as  he 
laid  out  the  greater  part  of  the  contents  of  his 
case  upon  the  huge  writing-table. 

"  You  seem  to  forget  that  this  is  a  religious 
house,"  replied  the  abbess,  and  she  might  have  said 
more,  but  was  interrupted  by  a  violent  attack  of 
coughing,  during  which  Maria  Addolorata  sup 
ported  her  and  tried  to  ease  her. 

"  It  will  be  better  if  you  go  away,"  said  the  nun, 
at  last.  "  I  will  do  all  you  have  ordered,  and  your 
presence  irritates  her.  Come  back  to-morrow  morn 
ing,  and  I  will  tell  you  how  she  is  progressing." 


76  CAS  A    BRACCIO. 

The  abbess  nodded  slowly,  confirming  her  niece's 
words.  Sor  Toramaso  very  reluctantly  closed  his 
case,  placed  it  under  his  arm,  gathered  up  his  broad 
cloth  cloak  with  his  hat,  and  made  a  low  obeisance 
before  the  sick  lady. 

"I  wish  your  most  reverend  excellency  a  good 
rest  and  speedy  recovery,"  he  said.  "I  am  your 
most  reverend  excellency's  most  humble  servant." 

Maria  Addolorata  led  him  out  into  the  ante 
chamber.  There  she  paused,  and  they  were  alone 
together  for  a  moment,  all  the  doors  being  closed. 
The  doctor  stood  still  beside  her,  waiting  for  her 
to  speak. 

"  What  do  you  think  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  say  anything,"  he  answered. 
"  What  do  you  wish  me  to  say  ?  A  stroke  of 
air,  a  cold,  a  bronchitis,  a  pleurisy,  a  pneumonia. 
Thanks  be  to  Heaven,  there  is  little  fever.  What 
do  you  wish  me  to  say  ?  For  the  stroke  of  air,  a 
little  good  wine ;  for  the  cold,  warm  covering ;  for 
the  bronchitis,  the  tea  of  marshmallows ;  for  the 
pleurisy,  severe  blistering;  for  the  pneumonia,  a 
good  mustard  plaster ;  for  the  general  system,  the 
black  draught ;  above  all,  nothing  to  eat.  Frictions 
with  hot  oil  will  also  do  good.  It  is  the  practice 
of  medicine  by  proxy,  my  lady  mother.  What  do 
you  wish  me  to  say  ?  I  am  disposed.  I  am  her 
most  reverend  excellency's  very  humble  servant. 
But  I  cannot  perform  miracles.  Pray  to  the  Ma- 


CASA   BEACC10.  77 

donna  to  perform  them.  I  have  not  even  seen  the 
tip  of  her  most  reverend  excellency's  most  wise 
tongue.  What  can  I  do  ?  " 

"Well,  then,  come  back  to-morrow  morning,  and 
I  will  see  you  here,"  said  Maria  Addolorata. 

Sor  Tommaso  found  the  nuns  waiting  for  him 
with  their  little  lamp  in  the  corridor,  and  they  led 
him  back  through  the  vaulted  passages  and  stair 
cases  and  let  him  out  into  the  night  without  a  word. 

The  night  was  dark  and  cloudy.  It  had  grown 
much  darker  since  he  had  come  up,  as  the  last 
lingering  light  of  evening  had  faded  altogether 
from  the  sky.  The  October  wind  drew  down  in 
gusts  from  the  mountains  above  Subiaco,  and  blew 
the  doctor's  long  cloak  about  so  that  it  flapped 
softly  now  and  then  like  the  wings  of  a  night  bird. 
After  descending  some  distance,  he  carefully  set 
down  his  case  upon  the  stones  and  fumbled  in  his 
pockets  for  his  snuffbox,  which  he  found  with 
some  difficulty.  A  gust  blew  up  a  grain  of  snuff 
into  his  right  eye,  and  he  stamped  angrily  with  the 
pain,  hurting  his  foot  against  a  rolling  stone  as  he 
did  so.  But  he  succeeded  in  getting  his  snuff  to 
his  nose  at  last.  Then  he  bent  down  in  the  dark 
to  take  up  his  case,  which  was  close  to  his  feet, 
though  he  could  hardly  see  it.  The  gusty  south 
wind  blew  the  long  skirts  of  his  cloak  over  his 
head  and  made  them  flap  about  his  ears.  He 
groped  for  the  box. 


78  CAS  A    BBACCIO. 

Just  then  the  doctor  heard  light  footsteps  coin 
ing  down  the  path  behind  him.  He  called  out, 
warning  that  he  was  in  the  way. 

"0-e,  gently,  you  know!"  he  cried.  "An  ap 
oplexy  on  the  wind!"  he  added  vehemently,  as 
his  head  and  hands  became  entangled  more  and 
more  in  the  folds  of  his  cloak. 

"And  another  on  you!"  answered  a  woman's 
voice,  speaking  low  through  clenched  teeth. 

In  the  darkness  a  hand  rose  and  fell  with  some 
thing  in  it,  three  times  in  quick  succession.  A 
man's  low  cry  of  pain  was  stifled  in  folds  of  broad 
cloth.  The  same  light  footsteps  were  heard  for  a 
moment  again  in  the  narrow,  winding  way,  and 
Sor  Tommaso  was  lying  motionless  on  his  face 
across  his  box,  with  his  cloak  over  his  head.  The 
gusty  south  wind  blew  up  and  down  between  the 
dark  walls,  bearing  now  and  then  a  few  withered 
vine  leaves  and  wisps  of  straw  with  it ;  and  the 
night  grew  darker  still,  and  no  one  passed  that 
way  for  a  long  time. 


'Sor  Tommaso  was  lying  motionless." —Vol.  I.,  p.  78. 


CHAPTEE  V. 

WHEN  Angus  Dalrymple  had  finished  his  supper, 
he  produced  a  book  and  sat  reading  by  the  light 
of  the  wicks  of  the  three  brass  lamps.  Annetta 
had  taken  away  the  things  and  had  not  come  back 
again.  Gigetto  strolled  in  and  took  his  guitar 
from  the  peg  on  the  wall,  and  idled  about  the  room, 
tuning  it  and  humming  to  himself.  He  was  a  tall 
young  fellow  with  a  woman's  face  and  beautiful 
velvet-like  eyes,  as  handsome  and  idle  a  youth  as 
you  might  meet  in  Subiaco  on  a  summer's  feast- 
day.  He  exchanged  a  word  of  greeting  with 
Dalrymple,  and,  seeing  that  the  place  was  other 
wise  deserted,  he  at  last  slung  his  guitar  over 
his  shoulder,  pulled  his  broad  black  felt  hat 
over  his  eyes,  and  strolled  out  through  the  half- 
open  door,  presumably  in  search  of  amusement. 
Gigetto's  chief  virtue  was  his  perfectly  childlike 
and  unaffected  taste  for  amusing  himself,  on  the 
whole  very  innocently,  whenever  he  got  a  chance. 
It  was  natural  that  he  and  the  Scotchman  should 
not  care  for  one  another's  society.  Dalrymple 
looked  after  him  for  a  moment  and  then  went  back 
to  his  book.  A  big  glass  measure  of  wine  stood 
79 


80  CASA    BRACCIO. 

beside  him  not  half  empty,  and  his  glass  was 
full. 

He  was  making  a  strong  effort  to  concentrate  his 
attention  upon  the  learned  treatise,  which  formed 
a  part  of  the  little  library  he  had  brought  with 
him.  But  Annetta's  idle  talk  about  the  nuns,  and 
especially  about  Maria  Addolorata  and  her  singing, 
kept  running  through  his  head  in  spite  of  his  de 
termination  to  be  serious.  He  had  been  living  the 
life  of  a  hermit  for  months,  and  had  almost  for 
gotten  the  sound  of  an  educated  woman's  voice. 
To  him  Annetta  was  nothing  more  than  a  rather 
pretty  wild  animal.  It  did  not  enter  his  head  that 
she  might  be  in  love  with  him.  Sora  Nanna  was 
simply  an  older  and  uglier  animal  of  the  same 
species.  To  a  man  of  Dalryinple's  temperament, 
and  really  devoted  to  the  pursuit  of  a  serious 
object,  a  woman  quite  incapable  of  even  under 
standing  what  that  object  is  can  hardly  seem  to  be 
a  woman  at  all. 

But  the  young  Scotchman  was  not  wanting  in 
that  passionate  and  fantastic  imagination  which  so 
often  underlies  and  even  directs  the  hardy  northern 
nature,  and  the  young  girl's  carelessly  spoken  words 
had  roused  it  to  sudden  activity.  In  spite  of  him 
self,  he  was  already  forming  plans  for  listening 
under  the  convent  wall,  if  perchance  he  might 
catch  the  sound  of  the  nun's  wonderful  voice,  and 
from  that  to  the  wildest  schemes  for  catching  a 


CAS  A   BEACCIO.  81 

momentary  glimpse  of  the  singer  was  only  a  step. 
At  the  same  time,  he  was  quite  aware  that  such 
schemes  were  dangerous  if  not  impracticable,  and 
his  reasonable  self  laughed  down  his  unreasoning 
romance,  only  to  be  confronted  by  it  again  as  soon 
as  he  tried  to  turn  his  attention  to  his  book. 

He  looked  up  and  saw  that  he  had  not  finished 
his  wine,  though  at  that  hour  the  measure  was 
usually  empty,  and  he  wondered  why  he  was  less 
thirsty  than  usual.  By  force  of  habit  he  emptied 
the  full  glass  and  poured  more  into  it,  —  by  force 
of  that  old  northern  habit  of  drinking  a  certain 
allowance  as  a  sort  of  duty,  more  common  in  those 
days  than  it  is  now.  Then  he  began  to  read  again, 
never  dreaming  that  his  strong  head  and  solid 
nerves  could  be  in  any  way  affected  by  his  potations. 
But  his  imagination  this  evening  worked  faster 
and  faster,  and  his  sober  reason  was  recalcitrant 
and  abhorred  work. 

The  nun  had  fair  hair  and  dark  eyes  and  a  beau 
tiful  face.  Those  were  much  more  interesting  facts 
than  he  could  find  in  his  work.  She  had  a  wonder 
ful  voice.  He  tried  to  recall  all  the  extraordinary 
voices  he  had  heard  in  his  life,  but  none  of  them 
had  ever  affected  him  very  much,  though  he  had  a 
good  ear  and  some  taste  for  music.  He  wondered 
what  sort  of  voice  this  could  be,  and  he  longed  to 
hear  it.  He  shut  up  his  book  impatiently,  drank 
more  wine,  rose  and  went  to  the  open  door.  The 


VOL.   I. G 


82  CASA   BRACCIO. 

gusty  south  wind  fanned  his  face  pleasantly,  and 
he  wished  he  were  to  sleep  out  of  doors. 

The  Sora  Nanna,  who  had  been  spending  the 
evening  with  a  friend  in  the  neighbourhood,  came 
in,  her  thin  black  overskirt  drawn  over  her  head  to 
keep  the  embroidered  head-cloth  in  its  place.  By 
and  by,  as  Dalrymple  still  stood  by  the  door, 
Stefanone  appeared,  having  been  to  play  a  game 
of  cards  at  a  friendly  wine-shop.  He  sat  down  by 
Sora  Nanna  at  the  table.  She  was  mixing  some 
salad  in  a  big  earthenware  bowl  adorned  with  green 
and  brown  stripes.  They  talked  together  in  low 
tones.  Dalrymple  had  nodded  to  each  in  turn,  but 
the  gusty  air  pleased  him,  and  he  remained  stand 
ing  by  the  door,  letting  it  blow  into  his  face. 

It  was  growing  late.  Italian  peasants  are  not 
great  sleepers,  and  it  is  their  custom  to  have 
supper  at  a  late  hour,  just  before  going  to  bed. 
By  this  time  it  was  nearly  ten  o'clock  as  we  reckon 
the  hours,  or  about  '  four  of  the  night '  in  October, 
according  to  old  Italian  custom,  which  reckons 
from  a  theoretical  moment  of  darkness,  supposed 
to  begin  at  Ave  Maria,  half  an  hour  after  sunset. 

Suddenly  Dalrymple  heard  Annetta's  voice  in 
the  room  behind  him,  speaking  to  her  mother. 
He  had  no  particular  reason  for  supposing  that 
she  had  been  out  of  the  house  since  she  had 
cleared  the  table  and  left  him,  but  unconsciously 
he  had  the  impression  that  she  had  been  away, 


CASA   BBACCIO.  83 

and  was  surprised  to  hear  her  in  the  room,  after 
expecting  that  she  should  pass  him,  coming  in  from 
the  street,  as  the  others  had  done.  He  turned  and 
walked  slowly  towards  his  place  at  the  table. 

"  I  thought  you  had  gone  out,"  he  said  carelessly, 
to  Annetta. 

The  girl  turned  her  head  quickly. 

"  I  ?  "  she  cried.  "  And  alone  ?  Without  even 
Gigetto  ?  When  do  I  ever  go  out  alone  at  night  ? 
Will  you  have  some  supper,  Signore  ?  " 

"I  have  just  eaten,  thank  you,"  answered  Dal- 
rymple,  seating  himself. 

"Three  hours  ago.  It  was  not  yet  an  hour  of 
the  night  when  you  ate.  Well  —  at  your  pleasure. 
Do  not  complain  afterwards  that  we  make  you  die 
of  hunger." 

"  Bread,  Annetta ! "  said  Stefanone,  gruffly  but 
good-naturedly.  "And  cheese,  and  salt  —  wine,  too ! 
A  thousand  things  !  Quickly,  my  daughter." 

"  Quicker  than  this  ? "  inquired  the  girl,  who 
had  already  placed  most  of  the  things  he  asked  for 
upon  the  table. 

"I  say  it  to  say  it,"  answered  her  father. 
" '  Hunger  makes  long  jumps,'  and  I  am  hungry." 

"Did  you  win  anything?"  asked  Sora  Nanna, 
with  both  her  elbows  on  the  table. 

"  Five  baiocchi." 

"It  was  worth  while  to  pay  ten  baiscchi  for 
another  man's  bad  wine,  for  the  sake  of  winning 


84  CAS  A   BRAG  CIO. 

so  much ! "  replied  Sora  Nanna,  who  was  a  careful 
soul.  "  Of  course  you  paid  for  the  wine  ?  " 

"Eh  —  of  course.  They  pay  for  wine  when 
they  come  here.  One  takes  a  little  and  one  gives 
a  little.  This  is  life." 

Annetta  busied  herself  with  the  simple  prepa 
rations  for  supper,  while  they  talked.  Dalryinple 
watched  her  idly,  and  he  thought  she  was  pale, 
and  that  her  eyes  were  very  bright.  She  had  set 
a  plate  for  herself,  but  had  forgotten  her  glass. 

"And  you?  Do'you  not  drink?"  asked  Stefa- 
none.  "  You  have  no  glass." 

"  What  does  it  matter  ?  "  She  sat  down  between 
her  father  and  mother. 

"Drink  out  of  mine,  my  little  daughter,"  said 
Stefanone,  holding  his  glass  to  her  lips  with  a 
laugh,  as  though  she  had  been  a  little  child. 

She  looked  quietly  into  his  eyes  for  a  moment, 
before  she  touched  the  win«  with  her  lips. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  with  a  little  emphasis. 
"I  will  drink  out  of  your  glass  now." 

"Better  so,"  kiughed  Stefanone,  who  was  glad 
to  be  reconciled,  for  he  loved  the  girl,  in  spite  of 
his  occasional  violence  of  temper. 

"  What  does  it  mean  ?  "  asked  Sora  Nanna,  her 
cunning  peasant's  eyes  looking  from  one  to  the 
other,  and  seeming  to  belie  her  stupid  face. 

"  Nothing,"  answered  Stefanone.  "  We  were 
playing  together.  Signor  Englishman,"  he  said, 


CAS  A   BBACCIO.  85 

turning  to  Dalrymple,  "you  must  sometimes  wish 
that  you  were  married,  and  had  a  wife  like  Nanna, 
and  a  daughter  like  Annetta." 

"Of  course  I  do,"  said  Dalryinple,  with  a 
smile. 

Before  very  long,  he  took  his  book  and  went 
upstairs  to  bed,  being  tired  and  sleepy  after  a 
long  day  spent  on  the  hillside  in  a  fruitless  search 
for  certain  plants  which,  according  to  his  books, 
were  to  be  found  in  that  part  of  Italy,  -but  which 
he  had  not  yet  seen.  He  fell  asleep,  thinking 
of  Maria  Addolorata's  lovely  face  and  fair  hair,  on 
which  he  had  never  laid  eyes.  In  his  dreams  he 
heard  a  rare  voice  ringing  true,  that  touched  him 
strangely.  The  gusty  wind  made  the  panes  of  his 
bedroom  window  rattle,  and  in  the  dream  he  was 
tapping  on  Maria  Addolorata's  casement  and  call 
ing  softly  to  her,  to  open  it  and  speak  to  him,  or 
calling  her  by  name,  with  his  extraordinary  foreign 
accent.  And  he  thought  he  was  tapping  louder 
and  louder,  upon  the  glass  and  upon  the  wooden 
frame,  louder  and  louder  still.  Then  he  heard  his 
name  called  out,  and  his  heart  jumped  as  though 
it  would  have  turned  upside  down  in  its  place,  and 
then  seemed  to  sink  again  like  a  heavy  stone  falling 
into  deep  water ;  for  he  was  awake,  and  the  voice 
that  was  calling  him  was  certainly  not  that  of 
the  beautiful  nun,  but  gruff  and  manly;  also  the 
tapping  was  not  tapping  any  more  upon  a  case- 


86  CAS  A    BEACCIO. 

ment,  but  was  a  vigorous  pounding  against  his 
own  bolted  door. 

Dalrymple  sat  up  suddenly  and  listened,  wide 
awake  at  once.  The  square  of  his  window  was 
faintly  visible  in  the  darkness,  as  though  the  dawn 
were  breaking.  He  called  out,  asking  who  was 
outside. 

"Get  up,  Siguore!  Get  up!  You  are  wanted 
quickly  !  "  It  was  Stefanone. 

Dalrymple  struck  a  light,  for  he  had  a  supply 
of  matches  with  him,  a  convenience  of  modern  life 
not  at  that  time  known  in  Subiaco,  except  as  an 
expensive  toy,  though  already  in  use  in  Home. 
As  he  was,  he  opened  the  door.  Stefanone  came 
in,  dressed  in  his  shirt  and  breeches,  pale  with 
excitement. 

"  You  must  dress  yourself,  Signore,"  he  said 
briefly,  as  he  glanced  at  the  Scotchman,  and  then 
set  down  the  small  tin  and  glass  lantern  he 
carried. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  inquired  Dalrymple, 
yawning,  and  stretching  his  great  white  arms  over 
his  head,  till  his  knuckles  struck  the  low  ceiling; 
for  he  was  a  tall  man. 

"The  matter  is  that  they  have  killed  Sor  Tom- 
rnaso,"  answered  the  peasant. 

Dalrymple  uttered  an  exclamation  of  surprise 
and  incredulity. 

"  It  is  as  I  say,"  continued  Stefanone.     "  They 


CAS  A   BBACCIO.  87 

found  him  lying  across  the  way,  in  the  street,  with 
knife-wounds  in  him,  as  many  as  you  please." 

"  That  is  horrible  ! "  exclaimed  Dalrymple,  turn 
ing,  and  calmly  trimming  his  lamp,  which  burned 
badly  at  first. 

"  Then  dress  yourself,  Signore  ! "  said  Stefanone, 
impatiently.  "  You  must  come  ! " 

"  Why  ?  If  he  is  dead,  what  can  I  do  ?  "  asked 
the  northern  man,  coolly.  "I  am  sorry.  What 
more  can  I  say?" 

"  But  he  is  not  dead  yet ! "  Stefanone  was 
growing  excited.  "  They  have  taken  him  —  " 

"  Oh !  he  is  alive,  is  he  ? "  interrupted  the 
Scotchman,  dashing  at  his  clothes,  as  though  he 
were  suddenly  galvanized  into  life  himself.  "  Then 
why  did  you  tell  me  they  had  killed  him  ? "  he 
asked,  with  a  curious,  dry  calmness  of  voice,  as 
he  instantly  began  to  dress  himself.  "Get  some 
clean  linen,  Signer  Stefano.  Tear  it  up  into  strips 
as  broad  as  your  hand,  for  bandages,  and  set  the 
women  to  make  a  little  lint  of  old  linen  —  cot 
ton  is  not  good.  Where  have  they  taken  Sor 
Tommaso  ?  " 

"  To  his  own  house,"  answered  the  peasant. 

"  So  much  the  better.  Go  and  make  the  bandages." 

Dalrymple  pushed  Stefanone  towards  the  door 
with  one  hand,  while  he  continued  to  fasten  his 
clothes  with  the  other. 

Stefanone  was  not  without  some  experience  of 


88  CAS  A    BBACCIO. 

similar  eases,  so  he  picked  up  his  lantern  and  went 
off.  In  less  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  he  and 
Dalrymple  were  on  their  way  to  Sor  Tominaso's 
house,  which  was  in  the  piazza  of  Subiaco,  not  far 
from  the  principal  church.  Half  a  dozen  peasants, 
who  had  met  the  muleteers  bringing  the  wounded 
doctor  home  from  the  spot  where  he  had  been 
found,  followed  the  two  men,  talking  excitedly  in 
low  voices  and  broken  sentences.  The  dawn  was 
grey  above  the  houses,  and  the  autumn  mists  had 
floated  up  to  the  parapet  on  the  side  where  the 
little  piazza  looked  down  to  the  valley,  and  hung 
motionless  in  the  still  air,  like  a  stage  sea  in  a 
theatre.  In  the  distance  was  heard  the  clattering 
of  mules'  shoes,  and  occasionally  the  deep  clank 
ing  of  the  goats'  bells.  Just  as  the  little  party 
reached  the  small,  dark  green  door  of  the  doctor's 
house  the  distant  convent  bells  tolled  one,  then 
two  quick  strokes,  then  three  again,  and  then 
five,  and  then  rang  out  the  peal  for  the  morning 
Angelus.  The  door  of  the  dirty  little  coffee  shop 
in  the  piazza  was  already  open,  and  a  faint  light 
burned  within.  The  air  was  damp,  quiet  and 
strangely  resonant,  as  it  often  is  in  mountain  towns 
at  early  dawn.  The  gusty  October  wind  had  gone 
down,  after  blowing  almost  all  night. 

The  case  was  far  from  being  as  serious  as  Dal 
rymple  had  expected,  and  he  soon  convinced  him 
self  that  Sor  Tommaso  was  not  in  any  great  danger. 


CAS  A    BEACCIO.  89 

He  had  fainted  from  fright  and  some  loss  of  blood, 
but  neither  of  the  two  thrusts  which  had  wounded 
him  had  penetrated  to  his  lungs,  and  the  third  was 
little  more  than  a  scratch.  Doubtless  he  owed  his 
safety  in  part  to  the  fact  that  the  wind  had  blown 
his  cloak  in  folds  over  his  shoulders  and  head. 
But  it  was  also  clear  that  his  assailant  had  pos 
sessed  no  experience  in  the  use  of  the  knife  as  a 
weapon.  When  the  group  of  men  at  the  door  were 
told  that  Sor  Tommaso  was  not  mortally  wounded, 
they  went  away  somewhat  disappointed  at  the  in 
significant  ending  of  the  affair,  though  the  doctor 
was  not  an  unpopular  man  in  the  town. 

"It  is  some  woman,"  said  one  of  them,  contempt 
uously.  "  What  can  a  woman  do  with  a  knife  ? 
Worse  than  a  cat  —  she  scratches,  and  runs  away." 

"  Some  little  jealousy,"  observed  another.  "  Eh ! 
Sor  Tommaso  —  who  knows  where  he  makes  love  ? 
But  meanwhile  he  is  growing  old,  to  be  so  gay." 

"  The  old  are  the  worst,"  replied  the  first 
speaker.  "Since  it  is  nothing,  let  us  have  a 
baiocco's  worth  of  acquavita,  and  let  us  go  away." 

So  they  turned  into  the  dirty  little  coffee  shop 
to  get  their  pennyworth  of  spirits.  Meanwhile 
Dalrymple  was  washing  and  binding  up  his 
friend's  wounds.  Sor  Tommaso  groaned  and 
winced  under  every  touch,  and  the  Scotchman, 
with  dry  gentleness,  did  his  best  to  reassure  him. 
Stefanone  looked  on  in  silence  for  some  time, 


90  CAS  A    BRACCJO, 

helping  Dalrymple  when  he  was  needed.  The 
doctor's  servant-woman,  a  somewhat  grimy  peas 
ant,  was  sitting  on  the  stairs,  sobbing  loudly. 

"It  is  useless,"  moaned  Sor  Tommaso.  "I  am 
dead." 

"I  may  be  mistaken,"  answered  Dalrymple, 
"but  I  think  not." 

And  he  continued  his  operations  with  a  sure 
hand,  greatly  to  the  admiration  of  Stefanone, 
who  had  often  seen  knife-wounds  dressed.  Grad 
ually  Sor  Tommaso  became  more  calm.  His  face, 
from  having  been  normally  of  a  bright  red,  was 
now  very  pale,  and  his  watery  blue  eyes  blinked  at 
the  light  helplessly  like  a  kitten's,  as  he  lay  still 
on  his  pillow.  Stefanone  went  away  to  his  occu 
pations  at  last,  and  Dalrymple,  having  cleared 
away  the  litter  of  unused  bandages  and  lint,  and 
set  things  in  order,  sat  down  by  the  bedside  to 
keep  his  patient  company  for  a  while.  He  was 
really  somewhat  anxious  lest  the  wounds  should 
have  taken  cold. 

"If  I  get  well,  it  will  be  a  miracle,"  said  Sor 
Tommaso,  feebly.  "  I  must  think  of  my  soul." 

"By  all  means,"  answered  the  Scotchman.  "It 
can  do  your  soul  no  harm,  and  contemplation 
rests  the  body." 

"You  Protestants  have  not  human  sentiment," 
observed  the  Italian,  moving  his  head  slowly  on 
the  pillow.  "  But  I  also  think  of  the  abbess.  I 


CASA    BEACCIO.  91 

was  to  have  gone  there  early  this  morning.  She 
will  also  die.  We  shall  both  die." 

Dalrymple  crossed  one  leg  over  the  other,  and 
looked  quietly  at  the  doctor. 

"  Sor  Tommaso,"  he  said,  "  there  is  no  other 
physician  in  Subiaco.  I  am  a  doctor,  properly 
licensed  to  practise.  It  is  evidently  my  duty  to 
take  care  of  your  patients  while  you  are  ill." 

"  Mercy ! "  cried  Sor  Tommaso,  with  sudden 
energy,  and  opening  his  eyes  very  wide. 

"  Are  you  afraid  that  I  shall  kill  them,"  asked 
Dalrymple,  with  a  smile. 

"  Who  knows  ?  A  foreigner !  And  the  people 
say  that  you  have  converse  with  the  devil.  But 
the  common  people  are  ignorant." 

"  Very." 

"  And  as  for  the  convent  —  a  Protestant  —  for 
the  abbess !  They  would  rather  die.  Figure  to 
yourself  what  sort  of  a  scandal  there  would  be ! 
A  Protestant  in  a  convent,  and  then,  in  that  con 
vent,  too!  The  abbess  would  much  rather  die 
in  peace." 

"  At  all  events,  I  will  go  and  offer  my  services. 
If  the  abbess  prefers  to  die  in  peace,  she  can 
answer  to  that  effect.  I  will  ask  her  what  she 
thinks  about  it." 

"  Ask  her  ! "  repeated  Sor  Tommaso.  "  Do  you 
imagine  that  you  could  see  her  ?  But  what  can 
you  know  ?  I  tell  you  that  last  night  she  was 


92  CASA   BBACCIO. 

muffled  up  in  her  chair,  and  her  face  covered. 
It  needed  the  grace  of  Heaven,  that  I  might  feel 
her  pulse !  As  for  her  tongue,  God  knows  what 
it  is  like !  I  have  not  seen  it.  Not  so  much  as 
the  tip  of  it !  Not  even  her  eyes  did  I  see.  And 
to-day  I  was  not  to  be  admitted  at  all,  because  the 
abbess  would  be  in  bed.  Imagine  to  yourself,  with 
blisters  and  sinapisms,  and  a  hundred  things.  I 
was  only  to  speak  with  Sister  Maria  Addolorata, 
who  is  her  niece,  you  know,  in  the  anteroom  of  the 
abbess's  apartment.  They  would  not  let  you  in. 
They  would  give  you  a  bath  of  holy  water 
through  the  loophole  of  the  convent  door  and 
say,  '  Go  away,  sinner ;  this  is  a  religious  house  ! ' 
You  know  them  very  little." 

"You  are  talking  too  much,"  observed  Dal- 
rymple,  who  had  listened  attentively.  "It  is  not 
good  for  you.  Besides,  since  you  are  able  to 
speak,  it  would  be  better  if  you  told  me  who 
stabbed  you  last  night,  that  I  may  go  to  the 
police,  and  have  the  person  arrested,  if  possible." 

"You  do  not  know  what  you  are  saying,"  an 
swered  Sor  Tominaso,  with  sudden  gravity.  "  The 
woman  has  relations  —  who  could  handle  a  knife 
better  than  she." 

And  he  turned  his  face  away. 


CHAPTEE   VI. 

THE  sun  was  high  when  Dalrymple  left  Sor 
Tornmaso  in  charge  of  the  old  woman-servant  and 
went  back  to  Stefanone's  house  to  dress  himself 
with  more  care  than  he  had  bestowed  upon  his 
hasty  toilet  at  dawn.  And  now  that  he  had  plenty 
of  time,  he  was  even  more  careful  of  his  appear 
ance  than  usual ;  for  he  had  fully  determined  to 
attempt  to  take  Sor  Tommaso's  place  in  attendance 
upon  the  abbess.  He  therefore  put  on  a  coat  of 
a  sober  colour  and  brushed  his  straight  red  hair 
smoothly  back  from  his  forehead,  giving  himself 
easily  that  extremely  grave  and  trust-inspiring  air 
which  distinguishes  many  Scotchmen,  and  supports 
their  solid  qualities,  while  it  seems  to  deny  the 
possibility  of  any  adventurous  and  romantic  ten 
dency. 

At  that  hour  nobody  was  about  the  house,  and 
Dalrymple,  stick  in  hand,  sallied  forth  upon  his 
expedition,  looking  for  all  the  world  as  though  he 
were  going  to  church  in  Edinburgh  instead  of  med 
itating  an  entrance  into  an  Italian  convent.  He 
had  said  nothing  more  to  the  doctor  on  the  subject. 
Th.3  people  in  the  streets  had  most  of  them  seen 
93 


94  CAS  A   BRACCIO. 

him  often  and  knew  him  by  name,  and  it  did  not 
occur  to  any  one  to  wonder  why  a  foreigner  should 
wear  one  sort  of  coat  rather  than  another,  when  he 
took  his  walks  abroad.  He  walked  leisurely ;  for 
the  sky  had  cleared,  and  the  sun  was  hot.  More 
over,  he  followed  the  longer  road  in  order  to  keep 
his  shoes  clean,  instead  of  climbing  up  the  narrow 
and  muddy  lane  in  which  Sor  Toiumaso  had  been 
attacked.  He  reached  the  convent  door  at  last, 
brushed  a  few  specks  of  dust  from  his  coat,  settled 
his  high  collar  and  the  broad  black  cravat  which 
was  then  taking  the  place  of  the  stock,  and  rang 
the  bell  with  one  steady  pull.  There  was,  per 
haps,  no  occasion  for  nervousness.  At  all  events, 
Dairy mple  was  as  deliberate  in  his  movements  and 
as  calm  in  all  respects  as  he  had  ever  been  in  his 
life.  Only,  just  after  he  had  pulled  the  weather- 
beaten  bell-chain,  a  half-humorous  smile  bent  his 
even  lips  and  was  gone  again  in  a  moment. 

There  was  the  usual  slapping  and  shuffling  of 
slippers  in  the  vaulted  archway  within,  but  as  it 
was  now  day,  the  loophole  was  opened  immediately, 
and  the  portress  came  alone.  Dalrymple  explained 
in  strangely  accented  but  good  Italian  that  Sor 
Tommaso  had  met  with  an  accident  in  the  night ; 
that  he,  Angus  Dalrymple,  was  a  friend  of  the 
doctor's  and  a  doctor  himself,  and  had  undertaken 
all  of  Sor  Tommaso's  duties,  and,  finally,  that  he 
begged  the  portress  to  find  Sister  Maria  Addolo- 


CAS  A    BEACCIO.  95 

rata,  to  repeat  his  story,  and  to  offer  his  humble 
services  in  the  cause  of  the  abbess's  recovery.  All 
of  which  the  veiled  nun  within  heard  patiently  to 
the  end. 

"  I  will  speak  to  Sister  Maria  Addolorata,"  she 
said.  "  Have  the  goodness  to  wait." 

"  Outside  ? "  inquired  Dalrymple,  as  the  little 
shutter  of  the  loophole  was  almost  closed. 

"  Of  course,"  answered  the  nun,  opening  it  again, 
and  shutting  it  as  soon  as  she  had  spoken. 

Dalrymple  waited  a  long  time  in  the  blazing 
sun.  The  main  entrance  of  the  convent  faced  to 
the  southeast,  and  it  was  not  yet  midday.  He 
grew  hot,  after  his  walk,  and  softly  wiped  his  fore 
head,  and  carefully  folded  his  handkerchief  again 
before  returning  it  to  his  pocket.  At  last  he  heard 
the  sound  of  steps  again,  and  in  a  few  seconds  the 
loophole  was  once  more  opened. 

"  Sister  Maria  Addolorata  will  speak  with  you," 
said  the  portress's  voice,  as  he  approached  his  face 
to  the  little  grating. 

He  felt  an  odd  little  thrill  of  pleasant  surprise. 
But  so  far  as  seeing  anything  was  concerned,  he 
was  disappointed.  Instead  of  one  veiled  nun,  there 
were  now  two  veiled  nuns. 

"  "Madam,"  he  began,  "my  friend  Doctor  Tom- 
maso  Taddei  has  met  with  an  accident  which  pre 
vents  him  from  leaving  his  bed."  And  he  went  on 
to  repeat  all  that  he  had  told  the  portress,  with  such 


96  CAS  A   BE  AC  CIO. 

further  explanations  as  he  deemed  necessary  and 
persuasive. 

While  he  spoke,  Maria  Addolorata  drew  back  a 
little  into  the  deeper  shadow  away  from  the  loop 
hole.  Her  veil  hung  over  her  eyes,  and  the  folds 
were  drawn  across  her  mouth,  but  she  gradually 
raised  her  head,  throwing  it  back  until  she  could 
see  Dalrymple's  face  from  beneath  the  edge  of  the 
black  material.  In  so  doing  she  unconsciously  un 
covered  her  mouth.  The  Scotchman  saw  a  good 
part  of  her  features,  and  gazed  intently  at  what  he 
saw,  rightly  judging  that  as  the  sun  was  behind 
him,  she  could  hardly  be  sure  whether  he  were 
looking  at  her  or  not. 

As  for  her,  she  was  doubtless  inspired  by  a  natu 
ral  curiosity,  but  at  the  same  time  she  understood 
the  gravity  of  the  case  and  wished  to  form  an 
opinion  as  to  the  advisability  of  admitting  the 
stranger.  A  glance  told  her  that  Dalrymple  was 
a  gentleman,  and  she  was  reassured  by  the  gravity 
of  his  voice  and  by  the  fact  that  he  was  evidently 
acquainted  with  the  abbess's  condition,  and  must, 
therefore,  be  a  friend  of  Sor  Tommaso.  When  he 
had  finished  speaking,  she  immediately  looked 
down  again,  and  seemed  to  be  hesitating. 

"  Open  the  door,  Sister  Filomena,"  she  said  "at 
last. 

The  portress  shook  her  head  almost  impercepti 
bly  as  she  obeyed,  but  she  said  nothing.  The 


CASA    BRACCIO.  97 

whole  affair  was  in  her  eyes  exceedingly  irregular. 
Maria  Addolorata  should  have  retired  to  the  little 
room  adjoining  the  convent  parlour,  and  sepa 
rated  from  it  by  a  double  grating,  and  Dalrymple 
should  have  been  admitted  to  the  parlour  itself, 
and  they  should  have  said  what  they  had  to  say 
to  one  another  through  the  bars,  in  the  presence 
of  the  portress.  But  Maria  Addolorata  was  the 
abbess's  niece.  The  abbess  was  too  ill  to  give 
orders — too  ill  even  to  speak,  it  was  rumoured. 
In  a  few  days  Maria  Addolorata  might  be  '  Her 
most  Eeverend  Excellency.'  Meanwhile  she  was 
mistress  of  the  situation,  and  it  was  safer  to  obey 
her.  Moreover,  the  portress  was  only  a  lay  sister, 
an  old  and  ignorant  creature,  accustomed  to  do 
what  she  was  told  to  do  by  the  ladies  of  the 
convent. 

Dalrymple  took  off  his  hat  and  stooped  low  to 
enter  through  the  small  side-door.  As  soon  as  he 
had  passed  the  threshold,  he  stood  up  to  his 
height  and  then  made  a  low  bow  to  Maria  Addolo 
rata,  whose  veil  now  quite  covered  her  eyes  and 
prevented  her  from  seeing  him, — a  fact  which  he 
realized  immediately. 

"  Give  warning  to  the  sisters,  Sister  Filomena," 
said  Maria  Addolorata  to  the  portress,  who  nodded 
respectfully  and  walked  away  into  the  gloom  under 
the  arches,  leaving  the  nun  and  Dalrymple  together 
by  the  door. 

VOL.    I.  H 


98  CASA   BBACCIO. 

"  It  is  necessary  to  give  warning,"  she  explained, 
"  lest  you  should  meet  any  of  the  sisters  unveiled 
in  the  corridors,  and  they  should  be  scandalized." 

Dalrymple  again  bowed  gravely  and  stood  still, 
his  eyes  fixed  upon  Maria  Addolorata's  veiled  head, 
but  wandering  now  and  then  to  her  heavy  but 
beautifully  shaped  white  hands,  which  she  held 
carelessly  clasped  before  her  and  holding  the  end 
of  the  great  rosary  of  brown  beads  which  hung 
from  her  side.  He  thought  he  had  never  seen 
such  hands  before.  They  were  high-bred,  and  yet 
at  the  same  time  there  was  a  strongly  material 
attraction  about  them. 

He  did  not  know  what  to  say,  and  as  nothing 
seemed  to  be  expected  of  him,  he  kept  silence  for 
some  time.  At  last^  Maria  Addolorata,  as  though 
impatient  at  the  long  absence  of  the  portress, 
tapped  the  pavement  softly  with  her  sandal 
slipper,  and  turned  her  head  in  the  direction  of 
the  arches  as  though  to  listen  for  approaching  foot 
steps. 

"  I  hope  that  the  abbess  is  no  worse  than  when 
Doctor  Taddei  saw  her  last  night,"  observed  Dal 
rymple. 

"  Her  most  reverend  excellency,"  answered  Maria 
Addolorata,  with  a  little  emphasis,  as  though  to 
teach  him  the  proper  mode  of  addressing  the  ab 
bess,  "  is  suffering.  She  has  had  a  bad  night." 

"  I  shall  hope  to  be  allowed  to  give  some  advice 


CAS  A   BRACCIO.  99 

to  her  most  reverend  excellency,"  said  Dalrym- 
ple,  to  show  that  he  had  understood  the  hint. 

"  She  will  not  allow  you  to  see  her.  But  you 
shall  come  with  me  to  the  antechamber,  and  I  will 
speak  with  her  and  tell  you  what  she  says." 

"  I  shall  be  greatly  obliged,  and  will  do  my  best 
to  give  good  advice  without  seeing  the  patient." 

Another  pause  followed,  during  which  neither 
moved.  Then  Maria  Addolorata  spoke  again,  fur 
ther  reassured,  perhaps,  by  Dalrymple's  quiet  and 
professional  tone.  She  had  too  lately  left  the 
world  to  have  lost  the  habit  of  making  conversa 
tion  to  break  an  awkward  silence.  Years  of  seclu 
sion,  too,  instead  of  making  her  shy  and  silent,  had 
given  her  something  of  the  ease  and  coolness  of 
a  married  woman.  This  was  natural  enough,  con 
sidering  that  she  was  born  of  worldly  people  and 
had  acquired  the  manners  of  the  world  in  her  own 
home,  in  childhood. 

"You  are  an  Englishman,  I  presume,  Signor 
Doctor  ?  "  she  observed,  in  a  tone  of  interrogation. 

"A  Scotchman,  Madam,"  answered  Dalrymple, 
correcting  her  and  drawing  himself  up  a  little. 
"  My  name  is  Angus  Dalrymple." 

"It  is  the  same  —  an  Englishman  or  a  Scotch 
man,"  said  the  nun. 

"Pardon  me,  Madam,  we  consider  that  there  is 
a  great  difference.  The  Scotch  are  chiefly  Celts. 
Englishmen  are  Anglo-Saxons." 


100  CASA    BRACCIO. 

"But  you  are  all  Protestants.  It  is  therefore 
the  same  for  us." 

Dalrymple  feared  a  discussion  of  the  question 
of  religion.  He  did  not  answer  the  nun's  last 
remark,  but  bowed  politely.  She,  of  course,  could 
not  see  the  inclination  he  made. 

"You  say  nothing,"  she  said  presently.  "Are 
you  a  Protestant?" 

"Yes,  Madam." 

"  It  is  a  pity ! "  said  Maria  Addolorata.  "  May 
God  send  you  light." 

"Thank  you,  Madam." 

Maria  Addolorata  smiled  under  her  veil  at  the 
polite  simplicity  of  the  reply.  She  had  met  Eng 
lishmen  in  Rome. 

"It  is  no  longer  customary  to  address  us  as 
'  Madam,' "  she  answered,  a  moment  later.  "  It  is 
more  usual  to  speak  to  us  as  '  Sister '  or  '  Eeverend 
Sister'  —  or ''Sister  Maria.'  I  am  Sister  Maria 
Addolorata.  But  you  know  it,  for  you  sent  your 
message  to  me." 

"Doctor  Taddei  told  me. 

At  this  point  the  portress  appeared  in  the  dis 
tance,  and  Maria  Addolorata,  hearing  footsteps, 
turned  her  head  from  Dalrymple,  raising  her  veil 
a  little,  so  that  she  could  recognize  the  lay  sister 
without  showing  her  face  to  the  young  man. 

"  Let  us  go,"  she  said,  dropping  her  veil  again, 
and  beginning  to  walk  on.  "The  sisters  are 
warned." 


CASA    BEACC10.  101 

Dalrymple  followed  her  in  silence  and  at  a 
respectful  distance,  congratulating  himself  upon 
his  extraordinary  good  fortune  in  having  got  so 
far  on  the  first  attempt,  and  inwardly  praying  that 
Sor  Tomrnaso's  wounds  might  take  a  considerable 
time  in  healing.  It  had  all  come  about  so  natu 
rally  that  he  had  lost  the  sensation  of  doing 
something  adventurous  which  had  at  first  taken 
possession  of  him,  and  he  now  regarded  everything 
as  possible,  even  to  being  invited  to  a  friendly  cup 
of  tea  in  Sister  Maria  Addolorata's  sitting-room; 
for  he  imagined  her  as  having  a  sitting-room  and 
as  drinking  tea  there  in  a  semi-luxurious  privacy. 
The  idea  would  have  amused  an  Italian  of  those 
days,  when  tea  was  looked  upon  as  medicine. 

They  reached  the  end  of  the  last  corridor.  Dal 
rymple,  like  Sor  Tommaso,  was  admitted  to  the 
antechamber,  while  the  portress  waited  outside 
to  conduct  him  back  again.  But  Maria  did  not 
take  him  into  the  abbess's  parlour,  into  which  she 
went  at  once,  closing  the  door  behind  her.  Dal 
rymple  sat  down  upon  a  carved  wooden  box-bench, 
and  waited.  The  nun  was  gone  a  long  time. 

"I  have  kept  you  waiting,"  she  said,  as  she 
entered  the  little  room  again. 

"My  time  is  altogether  at  your  service,  Sister 
Maria  Addolorata,"  he  answered,  rising  quickly. 
"  How  is  her  most  reverend  excellency  ?  " 

"Very  ill.     I  do  not  know  what  to  say.     She 


102  CAS  A   BRACCIO. 

will  not  hear  of  seeing  you.  I  fear  she  will  not 
live  long,  for  she  can  hardly  breathe." 

"  Does  she  cough  ?  " 

"Not  much.  Not  so  much  as  last  night.  She 
complains  that  she  cannot  draw  her  breath  and 
that  her  lungs  feel  full  of  something." 

The  case  was  evidently  serious,  and  Dalrymple, 
who  was  a  physician  by  nature,  proceeded  to  ex 
tract  as  much  information  as  he  could  from  the 
nun,  who  did  her  best  to  answer  all  his  questions 
clearly.  The  long  conversation,  with  its  little 
restraints  and  its  many  attempts  at  a  mutual 
understanding,  did  more  to  accustom  Maria  Addo- 
lorata  to  Dalrymple's  presence  and  personality 
than  any  number  of  polite  speeches  on  his  part 
could  have  done.  There  is  an  unavoidable  ten 
dency  to  intimacy  between  any  two  people  who 
are  together  engaged  in  taking  care  of  a  sick 
person. 

"I  can  give  you  directions  and  good  advice," 
said  Dalrymple,  at  last.  "  But  it  can  never  be  the 
same  as  though  I  could  see  the  patient  myself.  Is 
there  no  possible  means  of  obtaining  her  consent  ? 
She  may  die  for  the  want  of  just  such  advice  as 
I  can  only  give  after  seeing  her.  Would  not  her 
brother,  his  Eminence  the  Cardinal,  perhaps  recom 
mend  her  to  let  me  visit  her  once  ?  " 

"That  is  an  idea,"  answered  the  nun,  quickly. 
"  My  uncle  is  a  man  of  broad  views.  I  have  heard 


CASA    BBACCIO.  103 

it  said  in  Rome.  I  could  write  to  him  that  Doctor 
Taddei  is  unable  to  come,  and  that  a  celebrated 
foreign  physician  is  here  —  " 

"Not  celebrated,"  interrupted  Dalrymple,  with 
his  literal  Scotch  veracity. 

"What  difference  can  it  make?"  uttered  Maria 
Addolorata,  moving  her  shoulders  a  little  impa 
tiently.  "He  will  be  the  more  ready  to  use  his 
influence,  for  he  is  much  attached  to  my  aunt. 
Then,  if  he  can  persuade  her,  I  can  send  down  the 
gardener  to  the  town  for  you  this  afternoon.  It 
may  not  be  too  late." 

"  I  see  that  you  have  some  confidence  in  me," 
said  Dalrymple.  "I  am  of  a  newer  school  than 
Doctor  Taddei.  If  you  will  follow  my  directions, 
I  will  almost  promise  that  her  most  reverend  ex 
cellency  shall  not  die  before  to-morrow." 

He  smiled  now,  as  he  gave  the  abbess  her  full 
title,  for  he  began  to  feel  as  though  he  had  known 
Maria  Addolorata  for  a  long  time,  though  he  had 
only  had  one  glimpse  of  her  eyes,  just  when  she 
had  raised  her  head  to  get  a  look  at  him  through 
the  loophole  of  the  gate.  But  he  had  not  forgotten 
them,  and  he  felt  that  he  knew  them. 

"  I  will  do  all  you  tell  me,"  she  answered  quietly. 

Dalrymple  had  some  English  medicines  with  him 
on  his  travels,  and  not  knowing  what  might  be 
required  of  him  at  the  convent,  he  had  brought 
with  him  a  couple  of  tiny  bottles. 


104  CAS  A    BE  AC  CIO. 

"This  when  she  coughs  —  ten  drops,"  he  said, 
handing  the  bottles  to  the  nun.  "  And  five  drops 
of  this  once  an  hour,  until  her  chest  feels  freer." 

He  gave  her  minute  directions,  as  far  as  he 
could,  about  the  general  treatment  of  the  patient, 
which  Maria  repeated  and  got  by  heart. 

"  I  will  let  you  know  before  twenty-three  o'clock 
what  the  cardinal  says  to  the  plan,"  she  said.  "  In 
this  way  you  will  be  able  to  come  up  by  daylight." 

As  Dalrymple  took  his  leave,  he  held  out  his 
hand,  forgetting  that  he  was  in  Italy. 

"  It  is  not  our  custom,"  said  Maria  Addolorata, 
thrusting  each  of  her  own  hands  into  the  opposite 
sleeve. 

But  there  was  nothing  cold  in  her  tone.  On  the 
contrary,  Dalrymple  fancied  that  she  was  almost 
on  the  point  of  laughing  at  that  moment,  and  he 
blushed  at  his  awkwardness.  But  she  could  not 
see  his  face. 

"Your  most  humble  servant,"  he  said,  bowing 
to  her. 

"Good  day,  Signor  Doctor,"  she  answered, 
through  the  open  door,  as  the  portress  jingled 
her  keys  and  prepared  to  follow  Dalrymple. 

So  he  took  his  departure,  not  without  much 
satisfaction  at  the  result  of  his  first  attempt. 


CHAPTEE   VII. 

SOR  TOMMASO  recovered  but  slowly,  though  his 
injuries  were  of  themselves  not  dangerous.  His 
complexion  was  apoplectic  and  gouty,  he  was  no 
longer  young,  and  before  forty-eight  hours  had 
gone  by  his  wounds  were  decidedly  inflamed  and 
he  had  a  little  fever.  At  the  same  time  he  was  by 
no  means  a  courageous  man,  and  he  was  ready  to 
cry  out  that  he  was  dead,  whenever  he  felt  himself 
worse.  Besides  this,  he  lost  his  temper  several 
times  daily  with  Dalrymple,  who  resolutely  refused 
to  bleed  him,  and  he  insisted  upon  eating  and 
drinking  more  than  was  good  for  him,  at  a  time 
when  if  he  had  been  his  own  patient  he  would 
have  enforced  starvation  as  necessary  to  recovery. 

Meanwhile  the  cardinal  had  exerted  his  influence 
with  his  sister,  the  abbess,  and  had  so  far  succeeded 
that  Dalrymple,  who  went  every  day  to  the  con 
vent,  was  now  made  to  stand  with  his  back  to  the 
abbess's  open  door,  in  order  that  he  might  at  least 
ask  her  questions  and  hear  her  own  answers. 
Many  an  old  Italian  doctor  can  tell  of  even 
stranger  and  more  absurd  precautions  observed  by 
the  nuns  of  those  days.  As  soon  as  the  oral 
105 


106  CA8A   BRACCIO. 

examination  was  over,  Maria  Addolorata  shut  the 
door  and  came  out  into  the  parlour,  where  Dalrym- 
ple  finished  his  visit,  prolonging  it  in  conversation 
with  her  by  every  means  he  could  devise. 

Though  encumbered  with  a  little  of  the  northern 
shyness,  Dalrymple  was  not  diffident.  There  is 
a  great  difference  between  shyness  and  diffidence. 
Diffidence  distrusts  itself;  shyness  distrusts  the 
mere  outward  impression  made  on  others.  At  this 
time  Dalrymple  had  no  object  beyond  enjoyirg  the 
pleasure  of  talking  with  Maria  Addolorata,  and  no 
hope  beyond  that  of  some  day  seeing  her  face  with 
out  the  veil.  As  for  her  voice,  his  present  position 
as  doctor  to  the  convent  made  it  foolish  for  him  to 
run  the  risk  of  being  caught  listening  for  her  songs 
behind  the  garden  wall.  But  he  had  not  forgotten 
what  Annetta  had  told  him,  and  Maria  Addolorata' s 
soft  intonations  and  liquid  depths  of  tone  in  speak 
ing  led  him  to  believe  that  the  peasant  girl  had 
not  exaggerated  the  nun's  gift  of  singing. 

One  day,  after  he  had  seen  her  and  talked  with 
her  more  than  half  a  dozen  times,  he  approached 
the  subject,  merely  for  the  sake  of  conversation, 
saying  that  he  had  been  told  of  her  beautiful 
voice  by  people  who  had  heard  her  across  the 
garden. 

"It  is  true,"  she  answered  simply.  "I  have  a 
good  voice.  But  it  is  forbidden  here  to  sing  except 
in  church,"  she  added  with  a  sigh.  "And  now 


CAS  A    BEACCIO.  107 

that  my  aunt  is  ill,  I  would  not  displease  her  for 
anything." 

"That  is  natural,"  said  Dalrymple.  "But  I 
would  give  anything  in  the  world  to  hear  you." 

"In  church  you  can  hear  me.  The  church  is 
open  on  Sundays  at  the  Benediction  service.  We 
are  behind  the  altar  in  the  choir,  of  course.  But 
perhaps  you  would  know  my  voice  from  the  rest 
because  it  is  deeper." 

"I  should  know  it  in  a  hundred  thousand," 
asseverated  the  Scotchman,  with  warmth. 

"  That  would  be  a  great  many  —  a  whole  choir 
of  angels ! "  And  the  nun  laughed  softly,  as  she 
sometimes  did,  now  that  she  knew  him  so  much 
better. 

There  was  something  warm  and  caressing  in  her 
laughter,  short  and  low  as  it  was,  that  made  Dal 
rymple  look  at  those  full  white  hands  of  hers  and 
wonder  whether  they  might  not  be  warm  and 
caressing  too. 

"  Will  you  sing  a  little  louder  than  the  rest  next 
Sunday  afternoon,  Sister  Maria?"  he  asked.  "I 
will  be  in  the  church." 

"  That  would  be  a  great  sin,"  she  answered,  but 
not  very  gravely. 

"Why?" 

"Because  I  should  have  to  be  thinking  about 
you  instead  of  about  the  holy  service.  Do  you 
not  know  that  ?  But  nothing  is  sinful  according 


108  CAS  A   BBACCIO. 

to  you  Protestants,  I  suppose.  At  all  events,  come 
to  the  church." 

"  Do  you  think  we  are  all  devils,  Sister  Maria  ?  " 
asked  Dalrymple,  with  a  smile. 

"  More  or  less."  She  laughed  again.  "  They 
say  in  the  town  that  you  have  a  compact  with 
the  devil." 

"  Do  you  hear  what  is  said  in  the  town  ?  " 

"  Sometimes.  The  gardener  brings  the  gossip  and 
tells  it  to  the  cook.  Or  Sora  Nanna  tells  it  to  me 
when  she  brings  the  linen.  There  are  a  thousand 
ways.  The  people  think  we  know  nothing  because 
they  never  see  us.  But  we  hear  all  that  goes  on." 

Dalrymple  said  nothing  in  answer  for  some  time. 
Then  he  spoke  suddenly  and  rather  hoarsely. 

"  Shall  I  never  see  you,  Sister  Maria  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Me  ?    But  you  see  me  every  day  —  " 

"  Yes,  —  but  your  face,  without  the  veil" 

Maria  Addolorata  shook  her  head. 

"  It  is  against  all  rules,"  she  answered. 

"  Is  it  not  against  all  rules  that  we  should  sit  here 
and  make  conversation  every  day  for  half  an  hour  ?  " 

"  Yes  —  I  suppose  it  is.  But  you  are  here  as  a 
doctor  to  take  care  of  my  aunt,"  she  added  quickly. 
"  That  makes  it  right.  You  are  not  a  man.  You 
are  a  doctor." 

"Oh,  —  I  understand."  Dalrymple  laughed  a 
little.  "Then  I  am  never  to  see  your  beautiful 
face  ?  " 


CASA   BRACCIO.  109 

"How  do  you  know  it  is  beautiful,  since  you 
have  never  seen  it  ?  " 

"From  your  beautiful  hands,"  answered  the 
young  man,  promptly. 

"  Oh  ! "  Maria  Addolorata  glanced  at  her  hands 
and  then,  with  a  movement  which  might  have  been 
quicker,  concealed  them  in  her  sleeves. 

"  It  is  a  sin  to  hide  what  God  has  made  beauti 
ful,"  said  Dalrymple. 

"  If  I  have  anything  about  me  that  is  beautiful, 
it  is  for  God's  glory  that  I  hide  it,"  answered 
Maria,  with  real  gravity  this  time. 

Dalrymple  understood  that  he  had  gone  a  little 
too  far,  though  he  did  not  exactly  regret  it,  for  the 
next  words  she  spoke  showed  him  that  she  was  not 
really  offended.  Nevertheless,  in  order  to  exhibit 
a  proper  amount  of  contrition  he  took  his  leave 
with  a  little  more  formality  than  usual  on  this  par 
ticular  occasion.  Possibly  she  was  willing  to  show 
that  she  forgave  him,  for  she  hesitated  a  moment 
just  before  opening  the  door,  and  then,  to  his  great 
surprise,  held  out  her  hand  to  him. 

"  It  is  your  custom,"  she  said,  just  touching  his 
eagerly  outstretched  fingers.  "But  you  must  not 
look  at  it,"  she  added,  drawing  it  back  quickly  and 
hiding  it  in  her  sleeve  with  another  low  laugh. 
And  she  began  to  shut  the  door  almost  before  he 
had  quite  gone  through. 

Dalrymple  walked  more  slowly  on  that  day,  as 


110  CAS  A    BBACCIO. 

he  descended  through  the  steep  and  narrow  streets, 
and  though  he  was  surefooted  by  nature  and  habit, 
he  almost  stumbled  once  or  twice  on  his  way  down, 
because,  somehow,  though  his  eyes  looked  towards 
his  feet,  he  did  not  see  exactly  where  he  was 
going. 

There  is  no  necessity  for  analyzing  his  sensa 
tions.  It  is  enough  to  say  at  once  that  he  was 
beginning  to  be  really  in  love  with  Maria  Addolo- 
rata,  and  that  he  denied  the  fact  to  himself  stoutly, 
though  it  forced  itself  upon  him  with  every  step 
which  took  him  further  from  the  convent.  He  felt 
on  that  day  a  strong  premonitory  symptom  in  the 
shape  of  a  logical  objection,  as  it  were,  to  his 
returning  again  to  see  the  nun.  The  objection  was 
the  evident  and  total  futility  of  the  almost  intimate 
intercourse  into  which  the  two  were  gliding.  The 
day  must  soon  come  when  the  abbess  would  no 
longer  need  his  assistance.  In  all  probability  she 
would  recover,  for  the  more  alarming  symptoms 
had  disappeared,  and  she  showed  signs  of  regaining 
her  strength  by  slow  degrees.  It  was  quite  clear 
to  Dairy m  pie  that,  after  her  ultimate  recovery,  his 
chance  of  seeing  and  talking  with  Maria  Addolo- 
rata  would  be  gone  forever.  Sor  Tornrnaso,  indeed, 
recovered  but  slowly.  Of  the  two  his  case  was  the 
worse,  for  fever  had  set  in  on  the  third  day  and 
had  not  left  him  yet,  so  that  he  assured  Dalrymple 
almost  hourly  that  his  last  moment  was  at  hand. 


CASA    BEACCIO.  Ill 

But  he  also  was  sure  to  get  well,  in  the  Scotch 
man's  opinion,  and  the  latter  knew  well  enough 
that  his  own  temporary  privileges  as  physician 
to  the  convent  would  be  withdrawn  from  him  as 
soon  as  the  Subiaco  doctor  should  be  able  to  climb 
the  hill. 

It  was  all,  therefore,  but  a  brief  incident  in  his 
life,  which  could  not  possibly  have  any  continua 
tion  hereafter.  He  tried  in  vain  to  form  plans 
and  create  reasons  for  seejing  Maria  Addolorata 
even  once  a  month  for  some  time  to  come,  but  his 
ingenuity  failed  him  altogether,  and  he  grew  angry 
with  himself  for  desiring  what  was  manifestly 
impossible. 

With  true  masculine  inconsequence,  so  soon  as 
he  was  displeased  with  himself  he  visited  his  dis 
pleasure  upon  the  object  that  attracted  him,  and 
on  the  earliest  possible  occasion,  on  their  very 
next  meeting.  He  assumed  an  air  of  coldness  and 
reserve  such  as  he  had  certainly  not  thought  neces 
sary  to  put  on  at  his  first  visit.  Almost  without 
any  preliminary  words  of  courtesy,  and  without  any 
attempt  to  prolong  the  short  conversation  which 
always  took  place  before  he  was  made  to  stand 
with  his  back  to  the  abbess's  open  door,  he  coldly 
inquired  about  the  good  lady's  condition  during 
the  past  night,  and  made  one  or  two  observations 
thereon  with  a  brevity  almost  amounting  to  curt- 
ness. 


112  CASA    BRACCIO. 

Maria  Addolorata  was  surprised;  but  as  her  face 
was  covered,  and  her  hands  were  quietly  folded 
before  her,  Dalrymple  could  not  see  that  his  be 
haviour  had  any  effect  upon  her.  She  did  not 
answer  his  last  remark  at  all,  but  quietly  bowed 
her  head. 

Then  followed  the  usual  serio-comic  scene, 
during  which  Dalrymple  stood  turned  away  from 
the  open  door,  asking  questions  of  the  sick  woman, 
and-  listening  attentively  for  her  low-spoken  an 
swers.  To  tell  the  truth,  he  judged  of  her  condi 
tion  more  from  the  sound  of  her  voice  than  from 
anything  else.  He  had  also  taught  Maria  Addo 
lorata  how  to  feel  the  pulse ;  and  she  counted  the 
beats  while  he  looked  at  his  watch.  His  chief 
anxiety  was  now  for  the  action  of  the  heart,  which 
had  been  weakened  by  a  lifetime  of  unhealthy 
living,  by  food  inadequate  in  quality,  even  when 
sufficient  in  quantity,  by  confinement  within  doors, 
and  lack  of  life-giving  sunshine,  and  by  all  those 
many  causes  which  tend  to  reduce  the  vitality  of 
a  cloistered  nun. 

When  the  comedy  was  over,  Maria  Addolorata 
shut  the  door  as  usual ;  and  she  and  Dalvymple 
were  alone  together  in  the  abbess's  parlour,  as 
they  were  every  day.  The  abbess  herself  could 
hear  that  they  were  talking,  but  she  naturally 
supposed  that  they  were  discussing  the  details  of 
her  condition ;  and  as  she  felt  that  she  was  really 


CASA    BBACCIO.  113 

recovering,  so  far  as  she  could  judge,  and  as  almost 
every  day,  after  Dalrymple  had  gone,  Maria  Addo- 
lorata  had  some  new  direction  of .  his  to  carry  out, 
the  elder  lady's  suspicions  were  not  aroused.  On 
the  contrary,  her  confidence  in  the  Scotch  doctor 
grew  from  day  to  day ;  and  in  the  long  hours 
during  which  she  lay  thinking  over  her  state  and 
its  circumstances,  she  made  plans  for  his  conver 
sion,  in  which  her  brother,  the  cardinal,  bore  a 
principal  part.  She  was  grateful  to  Dalrymple, 
and  it  seemed  to  her  that  the  most  proper  way 
of  showing  her  gratitude  would  be  to  save  his 
soul,  a  point  of  view  unusual  in  the  ordinary 
relations  of  life. 

On  this  particular  day,  Maria  Addolorata  shut 
the  door,  and  came  forward  into  the  parlour  as 
usual.  As  usual,  too,  she  sat  down  in  the  abbess's 
own  big  easy-chair,  expecting  that  Dalrymple 
would  seat  himself  opposite  to  her.  But  he  re 
mained  standing,  with  the  evident  intention  of 
going  away  in  a  few  moments.  He  said  a  few 
words  about  the  patient,  gave  one  or  two  direc 
tions,  and  then  stood  still  in  silence  for  a  moment. 

Maria  Addolorata  lifted  her  head  a  little,  but 
not  enough  to  show  him  more  than  an  inch  of  her 
face. 

"  Have  I  displeased  you,  Signor  Doctor  ?  "  she 
asked,  in  her  deep,  warm  voice.  "  Have  I  not 
carried  out  your  orders  ?  " 

VOL.    I,  I 


114  CASA    BEACCIO. 

"On  the  contrary,"  answered  Dalrymple,  with 
a  stiffness  which  he  resented  in  himself.  "It  is 
impossible  to  be  more  conscientious  than  you 
always  are." 

Seeing  that  he  still  remained  standing,  the  nun 
rose  to  her  feet,  and  waited  for  him  to  go.  She 
believed  that  she  was  far  too  proud  to  detain  him, 
if  he  wished  to  shorten  the  meeting.  But  some 
thing  hurt  her,  which  she  could  not  understand. 

Dalrymple  hesitated  a  moment,  and  his  lips 
parted  as  though  he  were  about  to  speak.  The 
silence  was  prolonged  only  for  a  moment  or  two. 

"Good  morning,  Sister  Maria  Addolorata,"  he 
said  suddenly,  and  bowed. 

"Good  morning,  Signer  Doctor,"  answered  the 
nun. 

She  bent  her  head  very  slightly,  but  a  keener 
observer  than  Dalrymple  was,  just  then,  would  have 
noticed  that  as  she  did  so,  her  shoulders  moved 
forward  a  little,  as  though  her  breast  were  con 
tracted  by  some  sudden  little  pain.  Dalrymple 
did  not  see  it.  He  bowed  again,  let  himself  out, 
and  closed  the  door  softly  behind  him. 

When  he  was  gone,  Maria  Addolorata  sat  down 
in  the  big  easy-chair  again,  and  uncovered  her 
face,  doubling  her  veil  back'  upon  her  head,  and 
withdrawing  the  thick  folds  from  her  chin  and 
mouth.  Her  features  were  very  pale,  as  she  sat 
staring  at  the  sky  through  the  window,  and  her 


CASA  BRACCIO.  115 

eyes  fixed  themselves  in  that  look  which  was 
peculiar  to  her.  Her  full  white  hands  strained 
upon  each  other  a  little,  bringing  the  colour  to  the 
tips  of  her  fingers.  During  some  minutes  she  did 
not  move.  Then  she  heard  her  aunt's  voice  calling 
to  her  hoarsely.  She  rose  at  once,  and  went  into 
the  bedroom.  The  abbess's  pale  face  was  very 
thin  and  yellow  now,  as  it  lay  upon  the  white 
pillow;  the  coverlet  was  drawn  up  to  her  chin, 
and  a  grimly  carved  black  crucifix  hung  directly 
above  her  head. 

"  The  doctor  did  not  stay  long  to-day,"  she  said, 
in  a  hollow  tone. 

"No,  mother,"  answered  the  young  nun.  "He 
thinks  you  are  doing  very  well.  He  wishes  you 
to  eat  a  wing  of  roast  chicken." 

"  If  I  could  have  a  little  salad,"  said  the  abbess. 
"Maria,"  she  added  suddenly,  "you  are  careful  to 
keep  your  face  covered  when  you  are  in  the  next 
room,  are  you  not  ?  " 

"Always." 

"  You  generally  do  not  raise  your  veil  until  you 
come  into  this  room,  after  the  doctor  is  gone,"  said 
the  elder  lady. 

"  He  went  so  soon,  to-day,"  answered  Maria 
Addolorata,  with  perfectly  innocent  truth.  "I 
stayed  a  moment  in  the  parlour,  thinking  over  his 
directions,  and  I  lifted  my  veil  when  I  was  alone. 
It  is  close  to-day." 


116  CA8A    BBACCIO. 

"  Go  into  the  garden,  and  walk  a  little,"  said  the 
abbess.  "  It  will  do  you  good.  You  are  pale." 

If  she  had  felt  even  a  faint  uneasiness  about  her 
niece's  conduct,  it  was  removed  by  the  latter's 
manner. 


CHAPTEE   VIII. 

ONCE  more  Dalrymple  was  sitting  over  his  sup 
per  at  the  table  in  the  vaulted  room  on  the  ground 
floor  which  Stefanone  used  as  a  wine  shop.  To 
tell  the  truth,  it  was  very  superior  to  the  ordinary 
wine  shops  of  Subiaco  and  had  an  exceptional 
reputation.  The  common  people  never  came  there, 
because  Stefanone  did  not  sell  his  cheap  wine  at 
retail,  but  sent  it  all  to  Rome,  or  took  it  thither 
himself  for  the  sake  of  getting  a  higher  price  for 
it.  He  always  said  that  he  did  not  keep  an  inn, 
and  perhaps  as  much  on  account  of  his  relations 
with  Gigetto's  family,  he  assumed  as  far  as  possible 
the  position  of  a  wine-dealer  rather  than  that  of  a 
wine-seller.  The  distinction,  in  Italian  mountain 
towns,  is  very  marked. 

"  They  can  have  a  measure  of  the  best,  if  they 
care  to  pay  for  it,"  he  said.  "  If  they  wish  a  mouth 
ful  of  food,  there  is  what  there  is.  But  I  am  not 
the  village  host,  and  Nanna  is  not  a  wine-shop  cook, 
to  fry  tripe  and  peel  onions  for  Titius  and  Caius." 

The  old  Eoman  expression,  denoting  generally 
the  average  public,  survives  still  in  polite  society, 
and  Stefanone  had  caught  it  from  Sor  Tommaso. 
117 


118  CASA    BBACCIO. 

Dalrymple  was  sitting  as  usual  over  his  supper, 
by  the  light  of  the  triple-beaked  brass  lamp,  his 
measure  of  wiue  beside  him,  and  a  beefsteak,  which 
on  this  occasion  was  really  of  beef,  before  him. 
Stefanone  was  absent  in  Rome,  with  a  load  of  wine. 
Sora  Nanna  sat  on  Dalrymple's  right,  industriously 
knitting  in  Italian  fashion,  one  of  the  needles 
stuck  into  and  supported  by  a  wooden  sheath 
thrust  into  her  waist-band,  while  she  worked  off 
the  stitches  with  the  others.  Annetta  sat  opposite 
the  Scotchman,  but  a  little  on  one  side  of  the  lamp, 
so  that  she  could  see  his  face. 

"  Mother,"  she  said  suddenly,  without  lifting  her 
chin  from  the  hand  in  which  it  rested,  "you  do 
not  know  anything!  This  Signor  Englishman  is 
making  love  with  a  nun  in  the  convent !  Eh  — 
what  do  you  think  of  it  ?  Only  this  was  wanting. 
A  little  more  and  the  lightning  will  fall  upon  the 
convent !  These  Protestants  !  Oh,  these  blessed 
Protestants !  They  respect  nothing,  not  even  the 
saints ! " 

"  My  daughter !  what  are  you  saying  ?  " 

Sora  Nanna's  fingers  did  not  pause  in  their 
work,  nor  did  her  eyes  look  up,  but  the  deep 
furrow  showed  itself  in  her  thick  peasant's  fore 
head,  and  her  coarse,  hard  lips  twitched  clumsily 
with  the  beginning  of  a  smile. 

"What  am  I  saying?  The  truth.  Ask  rather 
of  the  Signore  whether  it  is  not  true." 


CAS  A   BBACC10.  119 

"It  is  silly,"  said  Dalrymple,  growing  unnatu 
rally  red,  and  looking  up  sharply  at  Annetta,  before 
he  took  his  next  mouthful. 

"  Look  at  him,  mother ! "  laughed  the  girl.  "  He 
is  red,  red  —  he  seems  to  me  a  boiled  shrimp.  Eh, 
this  time  I  have  guessed  it!  And  as  for  Sister 
Maria  Addolorata,  she  no  longer  sees  with  her 
eyes !  To-day,  when  you  were  carrying  in  the 
baskets,  you  and  the  other  women  who  went  with 
us,  I  asked  her  whether  the  abbess  was  satisfied 
with  the  new  doctor,  and  she  answered  that  he  was 
a  very  wise  man,  much  wiser  than  Sor  Tommaso. 
So  I  told  her  that  it  was  a  pity,  because  Sor  Tom 
maso  was  getting  well  and  would  not  allow  the 
English  doctor  to  come  instead  of  him  much  longer. 
Then  she  looked  at  me.  By  Bacchus,  I  was  afraid. 
Certain  eyes !  Not  even  a  cat  when  you  take  away 
her  kittens !  A  little  more  and  she  would  have 
eaten  me.  And  then  her  face  made  itself  of  mar 
ble  —  like  that  face  of  a  woman  that  is  built  into 
the  fountain  in  the  piazza.  Arch-priest !  What  a 
face ! " 

The  girl  stared  hard  at  Dalrymple,  and  her 
mouth  laughed  wickedly  at  his  evident  embarrass 
ment,  while  there  was  something  very  different 
from  laughter  in  her  eyes.  During  the  long  speech, 
Sora  Nanna  had  stopped  knitting,  and  she  looked 
from  her  daughter  to  the  Scotchman  with  a  sort 
of  half-stupid,  half-cunning  curiosity. 


120  CAS  A   BBACCIO. 

"  But  these  are  sins ! "  she  exclaimed  at  last. 

"And  what  does  it  matter?"  asked  the  girl. 
"Does  he  go  to  confession?  So  what  does  it 
matter?  He  keeps  the  account  himself,  of  his 
sins.  I  should  not  like  to  have  them  on  my 
shoulders.  But  as  for  Sister  Maria  Addolorata  — 
oh,  she !  I  told  you  that  she  sinned  in  her  throat. 
Well,  the  sin  is  ready,  now.  What  is  she  waiting 
for  ?  For  the  abbess  to  die  ?  Or  for  Sor  Tominaso 
to  get  well  ?  Then  she  will  not  see  the  Signer 
Englishman  any  more.  It  would  be  better  for  her. 
When  she  does  not  see  him  any  more,  she  will 
knead  her  pillow  with  tears,  and  make  her  bread  of 
it,  to  bite  and  eat.  Good  appetite,  Sister  Maria ! " 

"You  talk,  you  talk,  and  you  conclude  nothing," 
observed  Sora  Nanna.  "You  have  certain  thoughts 
in  your  head !  And  you  do  not  let  the  Signore  say 
even  a  word." 

"  What  can  he  say  ?  He  will  say  that  it  is  not 
true.  But  then,  who  will  believe  him  ?  I  should 
like  to  see  them  a  little  together.  I  am  sure  that 
she  shows  him  her  face,  and  that  it  is  '  Signer 
Doctor '  here,  and  { Dear  Signor  Doctor '  there,  and 
a  thousand  gentlenesses.  Tell  the  truth,  Signore. 
She  shows  you  her  face." 

"No,"  said  Dalrymple,  who  had  regained  his  self- 
possession.  "  She  never  shows  me  her  face." 

"  What  a  shame  for  a  Carmelite  nun  to  show  her 
face  to  a  man ! "  cried  the  girl. 


CASA   BRACCIO.  121 

"But  I  tell  you  she  is  always  veiled  to  her  chin," 
insisted  Dalrymple,  with  perfect  truth. 

"  Eh !  It  is  you  who  say  so ! "  retorted  Annetta. 
"But  then,  what  can  it  matter  to  me  ?  Make  love 
with  a  nun,  if  it  goes,  Signore.  Youth  is  a  flower 
—  when  it  is  withered,  it  is  hay,  and  the  beasts  eat 
it." 

"This  is  true,"  said  Sora  Nanna,  returning  to 
her  knitting.  "But  do  not  pay  attention  to  her, 
Signore.  She  is  stupid.  She  does  not  know  what 
she  says.  Eat,  drink,  and  manage  your  own  affairs. 
It  is  better.  What  can  a  child  understand  ?  It  is 
like  a  little  dog  that  sees  and  barks,  without  under 
standing.  But  you  are  a  much  instructed  man  and 
have  been  round  the  whole  world.  Therefore  you 
know  many  things.  It  seems  natural." 

Though  Dalrymple  was  not  diffident,  as  has  been 
said,  he  was  far  from  vain,  on  the  whole,  and  in 
particular  he  had  none  of  that  contemptible  van 
ity  which  makes  a  man  readily  believe  that  every 
woman  he  meets  is  in  love  with  him.  He  had  not 
the  slightest  idea  at  that  time  that  Annetta,  the 
peasant  girl,  looked  upon  him  with  anything  more 
than  the  curiosity  and  vague  interest  usually 
bestowed  on  a  foreigner  in  Italy. 

He  was  annoyed,  however,  by  what  she  said  this 
evening,  though  he  was  also  secretly  surprised  and 
delighted.  The  contradiction  is  a  common  one. 
The  miser  is  half  mad  with  joy  on  discovering  that 


122  CASA    BRACCIO. 

he  has  much  more  than  he  supposed,  and  bitterly 
resents,  at  the  same  time,  any  notice  which  may  be 
taken  of  the  fact  by  others. 

Annetta  did  not  enjoy  his  discomfiture  and  evi 
dent  embarrassment,  for  she  was  far  more  deeply 
hurt  herself  than  she  realized,  and  every  word  she 
had  spoken  about  Maria  Addolorata  had  hurt  her, 
though  she  had.  taken  a  sort  of  vague  delight  in 
teasing  Dalrymple.  She  relapsed  into  silence  now, 
alternately  wishing  that  he  loved  her,  and  then, 
that  she  might  kill  him.  If  she  could  not  have 
his  heart,  she  would  be  satisfied  with  his  blood. 
There  was  a  passionate  animal  longing  in  the  in 
stinct  to  have  him  for  herself,  even  dead,  rather 
than  that  any  other  woman  should  get  his  love. 

Dalrymple  was  aware  only  that  the  girl's  words 
had  annoyed  him,  while  inwardly  conscious  that  if 
what  she  said  were  true,  the  truth  would  make  a 
difference  in  his  life.  He  showed  no  inclination  to 
talk  any  more,  and  finished  his  supper  in  a  rather 
morose  silence,  turning  to  his  book  as  soon  as  he 
had  done.  Then  Gigetto  came  in  with  his  guitar 
and  sang  and  talked  with  the  two  women. 

But  he  was  restless  that  night,  and  did  not  fall 
asleep  until  the  moon  had  set  and  his  window  grew 
dark.  And  even  in  his  dreams  he  was  restless  still, 
so  that  when  he  awoke  in  the  morning  he  said  to 
himself  that  he  had  been  foolish  in  his  behaviour 
towards  Maria  Addolorata  on  the  previous  day. 


CAS  A    BRACCIO.  123 

He  felt  tired,  too,  and  his  colour  was  less  brilliant 
than  usual.  It  was  Sunday,  and  he  remembered 
that  if  he  chose  he  could  go  in  the  afternoon  to 
the  Benediction  in  the  convent  church  and  hear 
Maria's  voice  perhaps.  But  at  the  usual  hour, 
just  before  noon,  he  went  to  make  his  visit  to  the 
abbess. 

It  was  his  intention  to  forget  his  stiff  manner, 
and  to  behave  as  he  had  always  behaved  until  yes 
terday.  Strange  to  say,  however,  he  felt  a  con 
straint  coming  upon  him  as  soon  as  he  was  in  the 
nun's  presence.  She  received  him  as  usual,  there 
was  the  usual  comic  scene  at  the  abbess's  door, 
and,  as  every  day,  the  two  were  alone  together  after 
her  door  was  shut. 

"Are  you  ill?"  asked  Maria  Addolorata,  after  a 
moment's  silence  which,  short  as  it  was,  both  felt 
to  be  awkward. 

Dalrymple  was  taken  by  surprise.  The  tone  in 
which  she  had  spoken  was  cold  and  distant  rather 
than  expressive  of  any  concern  for  his  welfare,  but 
he  did  not  think  of  that.  He  only  realized  that 
his  manner  must  seem  to  her  very  unusual,  since 
she  asked  such  a  question.  An  Italian  would  have 
observed  that  his  own  face  was  pale,  and  would 
have  told  her  that  he  was  dying  of  love. 

"No,  I  am  not  ill,"  answered  the  Scotchman, 
simply,  and  in  his  most  natural  tone  of  voice. 

"  Then  what  is  the  matter  with  you  since  yester- 


124  CASA   BEACCIO. 

day?"  asked  Maria  Addolorata,  less  coldly,  and  as 
though  she  were  secretly  amused. 

"  There  is  nothing  the  matter  —  at  least,  nothing 
that  I  could  explain  to  you." 

She  sat  down  in  the  big  easy-chair  and,  as  for 
merly,  he  took  his  seat  opposite  to  her. 

"There  is  something,"  she  insisted,  speaking 
thoughtfully.  "You  cannot  deceive  a  woman, 
Signer  Doctor." 

Dalryinple  smiled  and  looked  at  her  veiled  head. 

"  You  said  the  other  day  that  I  was  not  a  man, 
but  a  doctor,"  he  answered.  "I  suppose  I  might 
answer  that  you  are  not  a  woman,  but  a  nun." 

"And  is  not  a  nun  a  woman?"  asked  Maria 
Addolorata,  and  he  knew  that  she  was  smiling,  too. 

"You  would  not  forgive  me  if  I  answered  you," 
he  said. 

"Who  knows?  I  might  be  obliged- to,  since  I  am 
obliged  to  meet  you  every  day.  It  may  be  a  sin, 
but  I  am  curious." 

"Shall  I  tell  you?" 

As  though  instinctively,  Maria  was  silent  for  a 
moment,  and  turned  her  veiled  face  towards  the 
abbess's  door.  But  Dalrymple  needed  no  such 
warning  to  lower  his  voice. 

"Tell  me,"  she  said,  and  under  her  veil  she 
could  feel  that  her  eyes  were  growing  deep  and  the 
pupils  wide  and  dark,  and  she  knew  that  she  had 
done  wrong. 


CAS  A    BBACCIO.  125 

"  How  should  •!  know  whether  you  are  a  saint  or 
only  a  woman,  since  I  have  never  seen  your  face?" 
he  asked.  "  I  shall  never  know  —  for  in  a  few  days 
Doctor  Taddei  will  be  well  again,  and  you  will  not 
need  my  services." 

He  saw  the  quick  tightening  of  one  hand  upon 
the  other,  and  the  slight  start  of  the  head,  and  in 
a  flash  he  knew  that  all  Annetta  had  told  him  was 
true.  The  silence  that  followed  seemed  longer  than 
the  awkward  pause  which  had  preceded  the  conver 
sation. 

"  It  cannot  be  so  soon, "  she  said  in  a  very  low 
tone. 

"It  may  be  to-morrow,"  he  answered,  and  to  his 
own  astonishment  his  voice  almost  broke  in  his 
throat,  and  he  felt  that  his  own  hands  were  twist 
ing  each  other,  as  though  he  were  in  pain.  "I 
shall  die  without  seeing  you,"  he  added  almost 
roughly. 

Again  there  was  a  short  silence  in  the  still  room. 

Suddenly,  with  quick  movements  of  both  hands 
at  once,  Maria  Addolorata  threw  back  the  veil  from 
her  face,  and  drew  away  the  folds  that  covered  her 
mouth. 

"  There,  see  me !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Look  at  me 
well  this  once !  " 

Her  face  was  as  white  as  marble,  and  her  dark 
eyes  had  a  wild  and  startled  look  in  them,  as 
though  she  saw  the  world  for  the  first  time.  A 


126  CA 8 A    BEACCIO. 

ringlet  of  red-gold  hair  had  escaped  from  the  bands 
of  white  that  crossed  her  forehead  in  an  even  line 
and  were  drawn  down  straight  on  either  side,  for 
in  the  quick  movement  she  had  made  she  had  loos 
ened  the  pin  that  held  them  together  under  her 
chin,  and  had  freed  the  dazzling  throat  down  to 
the  high  collar. 

Dalrymple's  pale,  bright  blue  eyes  caught  fire, 
and  he  looked  at  her  with  all  his  being,  at  her  face, 
her  throat,  her  eyes,  the  ringlet  of  her  hair.  He 
breathed  audibly,  with  parted  lips,  between  his 
clenched  teeth. 

Gradually,  as  he  looked,  he  saw  the  red  blush 
rise  from  the  throat  to  the  cheeks,  from  the  cheeks 
to  the  forehead,  and  the  marble  grew  more  beauti 
ful  with  womanly  life.  Then,  all  at  once,  he 
saw  the  hot  tears  welling  up  in  her  eyes,  and  in  an 
instant  the  vision  was  gone.  With  a  passionate 
movement  she  had  covered  her  face  with  the  veil, 
and  throwing  herself  sideways  against  the  high 
back  of  the  chair,  she  pressed  the  dark  stuff  still 
closer  to  her  eyes  and  mouth  and  cheeks.  Her 
whole  body  shook  convulsively,  and  a  moment  later 
she  was  sobbing,  not  audibly,  but  visibly,  as  though 
her  heart  were  breaking. 

Dalrymple  was  again  taken  by  surprise.  He  had 
been  so  completely  lost  in  the  utterly  selfish  con 
templation  of  her  beauty  that  he  had  been  very  far 
from  realizing  what  she  herself  must  have  felt  as 


"She  had  covered  her  face  with  the  veil."  — Vol.  I.,  p.  126, 


CAS  A   BRACCIO.  127 

soon  as  she  appreciated  what  she  had  done.  He  at 
once  accused  himself  of  having  looked  too  rudely 
at  her,  but  at  the  same  time  he  was  himself  too 
much  disturbed  to  argue  the  matter.  Quite  in 
stinctively  he  rose  to  his  feet  and  tried  to  take  one 
of  her  hands  from  her  veil,  touching  it  comfort 
ingly.  But  she  made  a  wild  gesture,  as  though  to 
drive  him  away. 

"  Go !  "  she  cried  in  a  low  and  broken  voice,  be 
tween  her  sobs.  "Go!  Go  quickly!" 

She  could  not  say  more  for  her  sobbing,  but  he 
did  not  obey  her.  He  only  drew  back  a  little  and 
watched  her,  all  his  blood  on  fire  from  the  touch 
of  her  soft  white  hand. 

She  stifled  her  sobs  in  her  veil,  and  gradually 
grew  more  calm.  She  even  arranged  the  veil  itself 
a  little  better,  her  face  still  turned  away  towards 
the  back  of  the  chair. 

"Maria!  Maria!"  The  abbess's  voice  was  call 
ing  her,  hoarsely  and  almost  desperately,  from  the 
next  room. 

She  started  and  sat  up  straight,  listening.  Then 
the  cry  was  heard  again,  more  desperate,  less  loud. 
With  a  quick  skill  which  seemed  marvellous  in 
Dalrymple's  eyes,  Maria  adjusted  her  veil  almost 
before  she  had  sprung  to  her  feet. 

"  Wait !  "  she  said.     "  Something  is  the  matter !  " 

She  was  at  the  bedroom  door  in  an  instant,  and 
in  an  instant  more  she  was  at  her  aunt's  bedside. 


128  CASA   BBACCIO. 

"Maria  —  I  am  dying,"  said  the  abbess's  voice 
faintly,  as  she  felt  the  nun's  arm  under  her  head. 

Dalrymple  heard  the  words,  and  did  not  hesitate 
as  he  hastily  felt  for  something  in  his  pocket. 

"  Come !  "  cried  Maria  Addolorata. 

But  he  was  already  there,  on  the  other  side  of 
the  bed,  pouring  something  between  the  sick  lady's 
lips. 

It  was  fortunate  that  he  was  there  at  that  mo 
ment.  He  had  indeed  anticipated  the  possibility 
of  a  sudden  failure  in  the  action  of  the  heart,  and 
he  never  came  to  the  convent  without  a  small  sup 
ply  of  a  powerful  stimulant  of  his  own  invention. 
The  liquid,  however,  was  of  such  a  nature  that  he 
did  not  like  to  leave  the  use  of  it  to  Maria  Addolo- 
rata's  discretion,  for  he  was  aware  that  she  might 
easily  be  mistaken  in  the  symptoms  of  the  collapse 
which  would  really  require  its  use. 

The  abbess  swallowed  a  sufficient  quantity  of  it, 
and  Dalrymple  allowed  her  head  to  lie  again  upon 
the  pillow.  She  looked  almost  as  though  she  were 
dead.  Her  eyes  were  turned  up,  and  her  jaw  had 
dropped.  Maria  Addolorata  believed  that  all  was 
over. 

"  She  is  dead,"  she  said.  "  Let  us  leave  her  in 
peace." 

It  is  a  very  ancient  custom  among  Italians  to 
withdraw  as  soon  as  a  dying  person  is  unconscious, 
if  not  even  before  the  supreme  moment. 


CAS  A   BRACCIO.  129 

"  She  will  probably  live  through  this,"  answered 
Dalrymple,  shaking  his  head. 

Neither  he  nor  the  nun  spoke  again  for  a  long 
time.  Little  by  little,  the  abbess  revived  under 
the  influence  of  the  stimulant,  the  heart  beat  less 
faintly,  and  the  mouth  slowly  closed,  while  the 
eyelids  shut  themselves  tightly  over  the  upturned 
eyes.  The  normal  regular  breathing  began  again, 
and  the  crisis  was  over. 

"It  is  passed,"  said  Dalrymple.  "It  will  not 
come  again  to-day.  We  can  leave  her  now,  for  she 
will  sleep." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  abbess  herself.  "  Let  me  sleep." 
Her  votee  was  faint,  but  the  words  were  distinctly 
articulated. 

Then  she  opened  her  eyes  and  looked  about  her 
quite  naturally.  Her  glance  rested  on  Dalrymple's 
face.  Suddenly  realizing  that  she  was  not  veiled, 
she  drew  the  coverlet  up  over  her  face.  It  is  a 
peculiarity  of  such  cases,  that  the  patient  returns 
almost  immediately  to  ordinary  consciousness  when 
the  moment  of  danger  is  past. 

"  Go ! "  she  said,  with  more  energy  than  might 
have  been  expected.  "This  is  a  religious  house. 
You  must  not  be  here." 

Dalrymple  retired  into  the  parlour  again,  shut 
ting  the  door  behind  him,  and  waited  for  Maria 
Addolorata,  for  it  was  now  indispensable  that  he 
should  give  her  directions  for  the  night.  During 


130  CAS  A   BE  AC  CIO. 

the  few  minutes  which  passed  while  he  was  alone, 
he  stood  looking  out  of  the  window.  The  excite 
ment  of  the  last  half-hour  had  cut  off  from  his 
present  state  of  mind  the  emotion  he  had  felt 
before  the  abbess's  cry  for  help,  but  had  not 
decreased  the  impression  it  had  left.  While  he 
was  helping  the  sick  lady  there  had  not  been 
one  instant  in  which  he  had  not  felt  that  there 
was  more  than  the  life  of  a  half -saintly  old  woman 
in  the  balance,  and  that  her  death  meant  the  end 
of  his  meetings  with  Maria  Addolorata.  Annetta's 
words  came  back  to  him,  '  she  will  knead  her 
pillow  with  tears  and  make  her  bread  of  it.' 

Several  minutes  passed,  and  the  door  opened 
softly  and  closed  again.  Maria  Addolorata  came 
up  to  him,  where  he  stood  by  the  window.  She 
did  not  speak  for  a  moment,  but  he  saw  that  her 
hand  was  pressed  to  her  side. 

"  I  have  spent  a  bad  half-hour,"  she  said  at  last, 
with  something  like  a  gasp. 

"It  is  the  worst  half-hour  I  ever  spent  in  my 
life,"  answered  Dalrymple.  "  I  thought  it  was  all 
over,"  he  added. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  thought  it  was  all  over." 

He  could  hear  his  heart  beating  in  his  ears.  He 
could  almost  hear  hers.  His  hand  went  out  toward 
her,  cold  and  unsteady,  but  it  fell  to  his  side  again 
almost  instantly.  But  for  the  heart-beats,  it  seemed 
to  him  that  there  was  an  appalling  stillness  in  the 


CASA    BRACCIO.  131 

air  of  the  quiet  room.  His  manly  face  grew  very 
pale.  He  slowly  bit  his  lip  and  looked  out  of  the 
window.  An  enormous  temptation  was  upon  him. 
He  knew  that  if  she  moved  to  leave  his  side  he 
should  take  her  and  hold  her.  There  was  a  tiny 
drop  of  blood  on  his  lip  now.  Something  in  him 
made  him  hope  against  himself  that  she  would 
speak,  that  she  would  say  some  insignificant  dry 
words.  But  every  inch  of  his  strong  fibre  and 
every  ounce  of  his  hot  blood  hoped  that  she  would 
move,  instead  of  speaking. 

She  sighed,  and  the  sigh  was  broken  by  a  quick- 
drawn  breath.  Slowly  Dalrymple  turned  his  white 
face  and  gleaming  eyes  to  her  veiled  head.  Still 
she  neither  spoke  nor  moved.  He,  in  memory,  saw 
her  face,  her  mouth,  and  her  eyes  through  the  thick 
stuff  that  hid  them.  The  silence  became  awful  to 
him.  His  hands  opened  and  shut  convulsively. 

She  heard  his  breath  and  she  saw  the  uncertain 
shadow  of  his  hand,  moving  on  the  black  and  white 
squares  of  the  pavement.  She  made  a  slight,  short 
movement  towards  him  and  then  stepped  suddenly 
back,  overcoming  the  temptation  to  go  to  him. 

"No!" 

He  uttered  the  single  word  with  a  low,  fierce  cry. 
In  an  instant  his  arms  were  around  her,  pressing 
her,  lifting  her,  straining  her,  almost  bruising  her. 
In  an  instant  his  lips  were  kissing  a  face  whiter 
than  his  own,  eyes  that  flamed  like  summer  light- 


132  CASA   BRACCIO. 

ning  between  his  kisses,  lips  crushed  and  hurt  by 
his,  but  still  not  kissed  enough,  hands  that  were 
raised  to  resist,  but  lingered  to  be  kissed  in  turn, 
lest  anything  should  be  lost. 

A  little  splintering  crash,  the  sound  of  a  glass 
falling  upon  a  stone  floor  in  the  next  room,  broke 
the  stillness.  Dalrymple's  arms  relaxed,  and  the 
two  stood  for  one  moment  facing  one  another,  pale, 
with  fire  in  their  eyes  and  hearts  beating  more 
loudly  than  before.  Dalrymple  raised  his  hand  to 
his  forehead,  as  though  he  were  dazed,  and  made 
an  uncertain  step  in  the  direction  of  the  door. 
Maria  raised  her  white  hands  towards  him,  and  her 
eyelids  drooped,  even  while  she  looked  into  his 
face. 

He  kissed  her  once  more  with  a  kiss  in  which 
all  other  kisses  seemed  to  meet  and  live  and  die  a 
lingering,  sweet  death.  She  sank  into  the  deep 
old  easy-chair,  and  when  she  looked  up,  he  was 
gone. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

IT  rained  during  the  afternoon,  and  Dalrymple 
sat  in  his  small  laboratory,  among  his  books  and 
the  simple  apparatus  he  used  for  his  experiments. 
His  little  window  was  closed,  and  the  southwest 
wind  drove  the  shower  against  the  clouded  panes 
of  glass,  so  that  the  rain  came  through  the  ill-fitted 
strips  of  lead  which  joined  them,  and  ran  down  in 
small  streams  to  the  channel  in  the  stone  sill, 
whence  the  water  found  its  way  out  through  a  hole 
running  through  the  wall.  He  sat  in  his  rush-bot 
tomed  chair,  sideways  by  the  deal  table,  one  long 
leg  crossed  over  the  other.  His  hand  lay  on  an 
open  book,  and  his  fingers  occasionally  tapped  the 
page  impatiently,  while  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  the 
window,  watching  the  driving  rain. 

He  was  not  thinking,  for  he  could  not  think. 
Over  and  over  again  the  scene  of  the  morning  came 
back  to  him  and  sent  the  hot  blood  rushing  to  his 
throat.  He  tried  to  reflect,  indeed,  and  to  see 
whether  what  he  had  done  was  to  have  any  conse 
quences  for  him,  or  was  to  be  left  behind  in  his 
life,  like  a  lovely  view  seen  from  a  carriage  window 
on  a  swift  journey,  gone  before  it  is  half  seen,  and 
133 


134  CAS  A   BBACCIO. 

never  to  be  seen  again,  except  in  dreams.  But  he 
was  utterly  unable  to  look  forward  and  reason 
about  the  future.  Everything  dragged  him  back, 
up  the  steep  ascent  to  the  convent,  through  the 
arched  ways  and  vaulted  corridors,  to  the  room  in 
which  he  had  passed  the  supreme  moments  of  his 
life.  The  only  distinct  impression  of  the  future 
was  the  strong  desire  to  feel  again  what  he  had 
felt  that  day;  to  feel  it  again  and  again,  and 
always,  as  long  as  feeling  could  last;  to  stretch 
out  his  hands  and  take,  to  close  them  and  hold,  to 
make  his,  indubitably,  what  had  been  but  question 
ably  his  for  an  instant,  to  get  the  one  thing  worth 
having,  for  himself,  and  only  for  himself.  For  the 
passion  of  a  strong  man  is  loving  and  taking,  and 
the  passion  of  a  good  woman  is  loving  and  giving. 
Dalrymple  reasoned  well  enough,  later,  —  too  well, 
perhaps,  —  but  during  those  hours  he  spent  alone  on 
that  day,  there  was  no  power  of  reasoning  in  him. 
The  world  was  the  woman  he  loved,  and  the  world's 
orbit  was  but  the  circle  of  his  clasping  arms.  Be 
yond  them  was  chaos,  without  form  and  void, 
clouded  as  the  rain-streaked  panes  of  his  little 
window. 

He  looked  at  his  watch  more  than  once.  At  last 
he  rose,  threw  a  cloak  over  his  shoulders  and  went 
out,  locking  the  door  of  the  little  laboratory  behind 
him  as  he  always  did,  and  thrusting  the  unwieldy 
key  into  his  pocket. 


CASA    BBACCIO.  135 

He  climbed  the  hill  to  the  convent,  taking  the 
short  cut  through  the  narrow  lanes.  The  rain  had 
almost  ceased,  and  the  wet  mist  that  blew  round 
the  corners  of  the  dark  houses  was  pleasant  in  his 
face.  But  he  scarcely  knew  what  he  saw  and  felt 
on  his  way.  He  reached  the  convent  church  and 
went  in,  and  stood  by  one  of  the  pillars  near  the 
door. 

It  was  a  small  church,  built  with  a  great  choir 
for  the  nuns  behind  the  high  altar ;  from  each  side 
of  the  latter  a  high  wooden  screen  extended  to  the 
walls,  completely  cutting  off  the  space.  It  was 
dark,  too,  especially  in  such  weather,  and  almost 
deserted,  save  for  a  number  of  old  women  who 
knelt  on  the  damp  marble  pavement,  some  leaning 
against  the  backs  of  chairs,  some  resting  one  arm 
upon  the  plastered  bases  of  the  yellow  marble 
columns.  There  were  many  lights  on  the  high 
altar.  Two  acolytes,  rough-headed  boys  of  Su- 
biaco,  knelt  within  the  altar  rail,  dressed  in 
black  cassocks  and  clean  linen  cottas.  Two  priests 
and  a  young  deacon  sat  side  by  side  on  the  right 
of  the  altar,  with  small  black  books  in  their  htinds. 
The  nuns  were  chanting,  unseen  in  the  choir.  No 
one  noticed  Dalrymple,  wrapped  in  his  cloak,  as 
he  leaned  against  the  pillar  near  the  door.  His 
head  was  a  little  inclined,  involuntarily  respectful 
to  ceremonies  he  neither  believed  in  nor  under 
stood,  but  which  had  in  them  the  imposing  element 


136  CAS  A    BEACCW. 

of  devout  earnestness.  Yet  his  eyes  were  raised 
and  looked  up  from  under  his  brows,  steadily  and 
watchfully,  for  he  knew  that  Maria  Addolorata 
was  behind  the  screen,  and  from  the  first  moment 
of  entering  the  church  it  seemed  to  him  that  he 
could  distinguish  her  voice  from  the  rest. 

He  knew  that  it  was  hers,  though  he  had  never 
heard  her  sing.  There  was  in  all  those  sweet, 
colourless  tones  one  tone  that  made  ringing  har 
monies  in  his  strong  heart.  Amongst  all  those 
mingling  accents,  there  was  one  accent  that 
touched  his  soul.  Amidst  the  echoes  that  died 
softly  away  under  the  dim  arches,  there  was  one 
echo  that  died  not,  but  rang  on  and  on  in  his  ears. 
There  was  a  voice  not  like  other  voices  there, 
nor  like  any  he  had  ever  heard.  Many  were 
strong  and  sweet;  this  one  was  not  sweet  and 
strong  only,  but  alive  with  a  divine  life,  winged 
with  divine  wings,  essential  of  immortality,  touch 
ing  beyond  tears,  passionate  as  the  living,  breath 
ing,  sighing,  dying  world,  grand  as  a  flood  of 
light,  sad  as  the  twilight  of  gods,  full  as  a  great 
water  swinging  to  the  tide  of  the  summer's  moon, 
fine-drawn  as  star-rays  —  a  voice  of  gold. 

As  Dalrymple  stood  there  in  the  shadow,  he 
heard  it  singing  to  him  and  telling  him  all  that 
he  had  not  been  told  in  words,  all  that  he  felt, 
and  more  also.  For  there  was  in  it  the  passion 
of  the  woman,  and  the  passionate  remorse  of  the 


CASA    BRACCIO.  137 

nun,  the  towering  love  of  Maria  Braccio,  woman 
and  princess,  and  the  deep  despair  of  Maria 
Addolorata,  nun  and  sinner,  unfaithful  spouse  of 
the  Lord  Christ,  accused  and  self-accusing,  self- 
wrongedj.  self-judged,  but  condemned  of  God  and 
foretasting  the  ultimate  tragedy  that  is  eternal  — 
the  tragedy  of  supreme  hell. 

The  man  who  stood  there  knew  that  it  was  his 
doing,  and  the  burden  of  his  deeds  bowed  him 
bodily  as  he  stood.  But  still  he  listened,  and,  as 
she  sung,  he  watched  her  lips  in  the  dark,  inner 
mirror  of  sin's  memory,  and  they  drew  him  on. 

Little  by  little,  he  heard  only  her  voice,  and  the 
others  chanted  bub  faintly  as  from  an  infinite  dis 
tance.  And  then,  not  in  his  thought,  but  in  deed, 
she  was  singing  alone,  and  the  words  of, '  0  Salutaris 
Hostia,'  sounded  in  the  dim  church  as  they  had 
never  sounded  before,  nor  could  ever  sound  again, 
the  appeal  of  a  lost  soul's  agony  to  God,  the  glory 
of  golden  voice,  the  accent  of  transcendent  genius, 
the  passion,  the  strength,  the  despair,  of  an  ancient 
race. 

In  the  dark  church  the  coarse,  sad  peasant 
women  bowed  themselves  upon  the  pavement. 
One  of  them  sobbed  aloud  and  beat  her  breast. 
Angus  Dalrymple  kneeled  upon  one  knee  and 
pressed  his  brow  against  the  foot  of  the  pillar, 
kneeling  neither  to  God,  nor  to  the  Sacred  Host, 
nor  to  man's  belief  in  Heaven  or  He'll,  neither 


138  CASA   BEACCIO. 

praying  nor  blaspheming,  neither  hoping  nor 
dreading,  but  spell-bound  upon  a  wrack  of  torture 
that  was  heart-breaking  delight,  his  senses  torn 
and  strained  to  the  utmost  of  his  strong  endur 
ance,  to  the  very  scream  of  passion,  his  soul  cruci 
fied  upon  the  exquisite  loveliness  of  his  sin. 

Then  all  was  still  for  an  instant.  Again  there 
was  a  sound  of  voices,  as  the  nuns  sang  in  chorus 
the  '  Tautum  Ergo.'  But  the  voice  of  voices  was 
silent  among  them.  The  solemn  Benediction 
blessed  the  just  and  the  unjust  alike.  The  short 
verses  and  responses  of  the  priests  broke  the  air 
that  still  seemed  alive  and  trembling. 

Dalrymple  rose  slowly,  and  wrapped  his  cloak 
about  him.  Above  the  footsteps  of  the  women 
going  out  of  the  church,  he  could  hear  the  soft 
sound  of  all  the  nuns  moving  together  as  they 
left  the  choir.  He  knew  that  she  was  with  them, 
and  he  stood  motionless  in  his  place  till  silence 
descended  as  a  curtain  between  him  and  what  had 
been.  Then,  with  bent  head,  he  went  out  into  the 
rain  that  poured  through  the  dim  twilight. 


CHAPTER  X. 

THEY  were  together  on  the  following  day.  The 
abbess  was  better,  and  as  yet  there  had  been  no 
return  of  the  syncope  which  Dalrymple  dreaded. 

Contrary  to  her  habit,  Maria  Addolorata  sat  on  a 
high  chair  by  the  table,  her  head  veiled  and  turned 
away,  her  chin  supported  in  her  hand.  Dalrymple 
was  seated  not  far  from  her,  leaning  forward,  and 
trying  to  see  her  face,  silent,  and  in  a  dangerous 
mood.  She  had  refused  to  let  him  come  near  her, 
and  even  to  raise  her  veil.  When  she  spoke,  her 
voice  was  full  of  a  profound  sadness  that  irritated 
him  instead  of  touching  him,  for  his  nerves  were 
strung  to  passion  and  out  of  tune  with  regret. 

"  The  sin  of  it ;  the  deadly  sin ! "  she  said. 

"There  is  no  sin  in  it,"  he  answered;  but  she 
shook  her  veiled  head. 

And  there  was  silence  again,  as  on  the  day 
before,  but  the  stillness  was  of  another  kind.  It 
was  not  the  awful  lull  which  goes  before  the  burst 
ing  of  the  storm,  when  the  very  air  seems  to  start 
at  the  fall  of  a  leaf  for  fear  lest  it  be  already  the 
thunder-clap.  It  was  more  like  the  noiseless  rising 
of  the  hungry  flood  that  creeps  up  round  the 
139 


140  CASA    BRACCIO. 

doomed  house,  wherein  is  desperate,  starving  life, 
higher  and  higher,  inch  by  inch  —  the  flood  of  ris 
ing  fate. 

"  You  say  that  there  is  no  sin  in  it,"  she  said, 
after  a  time.  "  You  say  it,  but  you  do  not  think 
it.  You  are  a  man  —  you  have  honour  to  lose  — 
you  understand  that,  at  least  —  " 

"You  are  a  woman,  and  you  have  humanity's 
right  to  be  free.  It  is  an  honourable  right.  You 
gave  it  up  when  you  took  that  veil,  not  knowing 
what  it  was  that  you  gave  up.  You  have  done  no 
wrong.  You  have  done  nothing  that  any  loving 
maiden  need  be  ashamed  of.  I  kissed  you,  for  you 
could  not  help  yourself.  That  is  the  monstrous 
crime  which  you  say  is  to  be  punished  with  eternal 
damnation.  It  is  monstrous  that  you  should  think 
so.  It  is  blasphemy  to  say  that  God  made  woman 
to  lead  a  life  of  suffering  and  daily  misery,  chained 
to  a  cross  which  it  is  agony  to  look  at,  and  shame 
to  break  from." 

"  Go  —  leave  me.  You  are  tempting  me  again." 
She  spoke  away  from  him,  not  changing  her  posi 
tion. 

"  If  truth  is  temptation,  I  am  tempting  you,  for 
I  am  showing  you  the  truth.  The  truth  is  this. 
"When  you  were  almost  a  child  they  began  to  bend 
you  and  break  you  in  the  way  they  meant  you  to 
grow.  You  bent,  but  you  were  not  broken.  Your 
nature  is  too  strong.  There  is  a  life  of  your  own 


CASA   BRACCIO.  141 

in  you.  It  was  against  your  will,  and  when  you 
were  just  grown  up,  they  buried  you,  your  beauty, 
your  youth,  your  fresh  young  heart,  your  voice  and 
your  genius  —  for  it  is  nothing  less.  It  was  all  done 
with  deliberate  intention  for  the  glory  of  your 
family,  blasphemously  asserted  to  be  the  glory  of 
God.  It  was  pressed  upon  you,  before  you  knew 
what  you  were  doing,  and  made  pleasant  to  you 
before  you  knew  what  it  all  meant.  Your  cross 
was  cushioned  for  you  and  your  crown  'of  thorns 
was  gilded.  They  made  the  seat  under  the  canopy 
seem  a  seat  in  heaven.  They  even  made  you 
believe  that  the  management  of  two  or  three  score 
suffering  women  was  government  and  power.  It 
seemed  a  great  thing  to  be  abbess,  did  it  not  ?  " 

Maria  Addolorata  bent  her  veiled  head  slowly 
twice  or  three  times,  in  a  heavy-he artjsd  way. 

"They  made  you  believe  all  that,"  continued 
Dalrymple,  with  cold  earnestness,  "  and  much  more 
besides  —  a  great  deal  of  which  I  know  little,  I 
suppose  —  the  life  to  come,  and  saintship,  and  the 
glories  of  heaven.  You  have  found  out  what  it  is 
all  vrorth.  We  have  found  it  out  together.  And 
they  frightened  you  with  hell.  Do  you  know  what 
hell  is?  A  life  without  love,  when  one  knows 
what  love  can  mean.  I  am  not  eloquent ;  I  wish  I 
were.  But  I  am  plain,  and  I  can  tell  you  the 
truth." 

"  It  is  not  the  truth,"  answered  the  nun,  slowly. 


142  CASA    BBACCIO. 

"You  tell  me  it  is,  to  tempt  me.  I  cannot  drive 
you  away  by  force.  Will  you  not  go  ?  I  cannot 
cry  out  for  help  —  it  would  ruin  me  and  you. 
Will  you  not  leave  me  ?  But  for  God's  grace,  I 
am  at  your  mercy,  and  there  is  little  grace  for  me, 
a  sinner." 

"No,  I  will  not  go  away,"  said  Dalrymple,  and 
it  seemed  to  Maria  that  his  voice  was  the  voice  of 
her  fate. 

"  Then  God  have  mercy ! "  she  cried,  in  a  low 
tone,  and  as  her  head  sank  forward,  it  was  her 
forehead  that  rested  in  her  right  hand,  instead  of 
her  chin. 

"  Love  is  more  merciful  than  God,"  he  answered. 

There  was  a  sudden  softness  in  his  voice  which 
she  had  never  heard,  not  even  yesterday.  Rising, 
he  stole  near  to  her,  and  standing,  bent  down  and 
leaned  upon  the  table  by  her  side  and  spoke  close 
to  her  ear.  But  he  did  not  touch  her.  She  could 
feel  his  breath  through  her  veil  when  he  spoke 
again.  It  was  vital  and  fierce,  and  softly  hot,  like 
the  breathing  of  a  powerful  wild  beast. 

"  You  are  my  God,"  he  said.  "  I  worship  you, 
and  adore  you.  But  I  must  have  you  for  mine 
always.  I  would  rather  kill  you,  and  have  no  God, 
than  lose  you  alive.  Come  with  me.  You  are 
free.  You  can  get  through  the  garden  at  night  — 
with  good  horses  we  can  reach  the  sea  to-morrow. 
There  is  an  English  ship  of  war  at  anchor  in  Civita 


CASA   BEACCIO.  143 

Vecchia.  The  officers  are  my  friends.  Before  to 
morrow  night  we  can  be  safe  —  married  —  happy. 
No  one  will  know  —  no  one  will  follow  us.  Maria 
—  come  —  come  —  come  !  " 

His  voice  sank  to  a  vibrating  whisper  as  he 
repeated  the  word  again  and  again,  closer  and 
closer  to  her  ear.  Her  hands  had  dropped  from 
her  forehead  and  lay  upon  the  table.  With  bent 
head  she  listened. 

"  Come,  my  darling,"  he  continued,  fast  and  low. 
"I  have  a  beautiful  home,  my  father's  home,  my 
mother's  —  your  laws  and  vows  are  nothing  to 
them.  You  shall  be  honoured,  loved  —  ah,  dear! 
adored,  worshipped  —  you  do  not  know  what  we 
will  do  for  you,  to  fill  your  life  with  sweet  things. 
All  your  life,  Maria,  from  to-morrow.  Instead  of 
pain  and  penance  and  everlasting  suffering  and 
weariness,  you  shall  have  all  that  the  world  holds 
of  love  and  peace  and  flowers.  And  you  shall  sing 
your  whole  heart  out  when  you  will,  and  have 
music  to  play  with  from  year's  beginning  to  year's 
end  and  year's  end  again.  Sweet,  let  me  tell  you 
how  I  love  you  —  how  you  are  alive  in  every  drop 
of  my  blood,  beating  through  me  like  living  fire, 
through  heart  and  soul  and  head  and  hand  —  " 

With  a  quick  movement  she  pressed  her  palms 
against  her  veil  upon  her  ears  to  shut  out  the 
sound  of  his  words.  She  rocked  herself  a  little,  as 
though  the  pain  were  almost  greater  than  she  could 


144  CASA   BEACCIO. 

bear.  But  his  hands  moved  too,  stealthily,  strongly, 
as  a  tiger's  velvet  feet,  with  a  vibration  all  through 
them,  to  the  very  ends  of  his  fingers.  For  he  was 
in  earnest.  And  the  arm  went  softly  round  her, 
and  closed  gently  upon  her  as  her  figure  swayed  in 
her  chair ;  and  the  other  sought  hers,  and  found  it 
cold  as  ice  and  trembling,  and  not  strong  to  stop 
her  hearing.  And  again  she  listened. 

Wild  and  incoherent  words  fell  from  his  lips,  hot 
and  low,  with  no  reason  in  them  but  the  overwhelm 
ing  reason  of  love  itself.  For  he  was  not  an  elo 
quent  man,  and  now  he  took  no  thought  of  what  he 
said.  He  was  far  too  natural  to  be  eloquent,  and 
far  too  deeply  stirred  to  care  for  the  shape  his  love 
took  in  speech.  There  was  in  his  words  the  strong 
rush  of  out-bursting  truth  which  even  the  worst 
passion  has  when  it  is  real  to  the  roots.  Words 
terrible  and  gentle,  blasphemous  and  devout,  wove 
themselves  into  a  new  language  such  as  Maria 
Addolorata  had  never  heard,  nor  dared  to  think  of 
hearing.  But  he  dared  everything,  to  tell  her,  to  hold 
her,  against  God  and  devil,  heaven  and  earth,  and  all 
mankind.  And  he  promised  all  he  had,  and  all 
that  was  not  his  to  promise  nor  to  give,  rending 
her  beliefs  to  shreds,  trampling  on  the  broken 
fragments  of  all  she  had  worshipped,  tearing  her 
chains  link  from  link  and  scattering  them  like 
straw  down  the  storm  of  passionate  contempt.  And 
then,  again,  pouring  out  love,  and  more  love,  and 


CASA    BBACCIO.  145 

love  again,  as  a  stream  of  liquid  fire  let  loose  to 
flood  all  it  meets  with  dazzling  destruction  and  not 
death. 

It  is  not  every  woman  that  knows  what  it  is  to 
be  so  loved  and  to  listen  to  such  words,  so  spoken. 
Those  who  have  heard  and  felt  can  understand,  but 
not  the  rest.  Gradually  as  he  spoke,  her  veiled 
face  was  drawn  toward  his ;  gradually  her  hand 
raised  the  thick  veil  and  drew  it  back ;  and  again  a 
little,  and  the  hand  that  had  struggled  long  and 
silently  against  his,  lay  still  at  last,  and  the  face 
that  had  appealed  in  vain  to  Heaven,  hid  itself 
against  the  heart  of  the  strong  man. 

"  The  Lord  have  mercy  upon  my  sinful  soul ! " 
she  softly  prayed. 

"  I  love  you ! "  whispered  Dalrymple,  folding  her 
to  him  with  both  his  arms,  and  pressing  his  lips  to 
her  head.  "That  is  all  the  world  holds.  That  is 
all  the  Heaven  there  is,  and  we  have  it  for  our 
own." 

But  presently  she  drew  back  from  him,  clinging 
to  him  with  her  hands  as  though  to  hold  him,  and 
yet  separating  from  him  and  looking  up  into  his 
face. 

"  And  to-morrow  ?  "  she  said,  with  a  despairing 
question  in  her  tone. 

"  We  will  go  away  to-night,"  he  answered,  "  and 
to-morrow  will  be  ours,  too,  and  all  the  to-morrows 
after  that." 

VOL.   I.  —  L 


146  CAS  A   BRACCIO. 

But  she  shook  her  head,  and  her  hands  loosened 
their  hold  upon  his  arms,  still  lingering  on  his 
sleeves. 

"  And  leave  her  to  die  ?  "  she  asked,  with  a  quick 
glance  at  the  abbess's  door. 

Then  she  looked  at  him,  with  something  of 
sudden  fear  as  she  met  his  eyes  again.  And 
almost  instantly  she  turned  from  him,  and  threw 
herself  forward  upon  the  table  as  she  sat. 

"  The  sin,  the  deadly  sin ! "  she  moaned.  "  Oh, 
the  horror  of  it  all  —  the  sin,  the  shame,  the  dis 
grace  !  That  is  the  worst  to  bear  —  the  shame ! 
The  undying  shame  of  it ! " 

Dalrymple's  brows  bent  themselves  in  a  heavy 
frown,  for  he  was  in  no  temper  to  be  thwarted, 
desperate  as  the  risk  might  be.  For  himself,  he 
knew  that  he  was  setting  his  life  on  the  chances, 
if  she  consented,  and  that  life  would  not  be  worth 
having  if  she  refused.  He  knew  well  enough  that 
they  must  almost  certainly  be  pursued,  and  that 
there  would  be  little  hesitation  about  shooting  him 
or  cutting  his  throat  if  they  were  caught  and  if  he 
resisted,  as  he  knew  that  he  should.  He  had  been 
in  love  with  her  for  days.  The  last  twenty-four 
hours  had  made  him  desperate.  And  a  desperate 
man  is  not  to  be  played  with,  more  especially  if 
he  chance  to  have  any  Highland  blood  in  his  veins. 

"  What  do  you  believe  in  most  ?  "  he  asked  sud 
denly  and  almost  brutally. 


CASA   BEACCIO.  147 

She  turned,  startled,  and  looked  him  in  the  face. 

"Because,  if  you  believe  in  God,  as  I  suppose 
you  do,  I  take  God  to  witness  that  I  shall  be  a 
dead  man  this  night,  unless  you  promise  to  go  with 
me." 

She  stared,  and  turned  white  to  the  lips,  as  he 
had  never  seen  her  turn  pale  before.  She  leaned 
forward,  gazing  into  his  eyes  and  breathing  hard. 

"You  do  not  mean  that,"  she  said,  as  though 
trying  hard  to  convince  herself. 

"  I  mean  it,"  he  answered  slowly,  pale  himself, 
and  knowing  what  he  said. 

She  leaned  nearer  to  him  and  took  his  arms  with 
her  hands,  for  she  could  not  speak.  The  terrible 
question  was  in  his  eyes. 

"You  would  kill  yourself,  if  I  refused — if  I 
would  not  go  with  you?"  Still  she  could  not 
believe  him. 

"Yes,"  he  answered. 

Once  more  the  room  was  very  still,  as  the  two 
looked  into  one  another's  eyes.  But  Maria  Addo- 
lorata  said  nothing.  The  frown  deepened  on  Dal- 
rymple's  face,  and  his  strong  mouth  was  drawn,  as 
a  man  draws  in  his  lips  at  the  moment  of  meeting 
death. 

"Good-bye,"  he  said,  gently  loosening  himself 
from  her  hold. 

Her  hands  dropped  and  she  turned  half  round, 
following  him  as  he  went  towards  the  door.  His 


148  CASA    BBACCIO. 

hand  was  almost  on  the  latch.  He  did  not  turn. 
But  as  he  heard  her  swift  feet  behind  him,  he  bent 
his  head  a  little.  Her  arms  went  round  his  throat, 
reaching  up  to  his  great  height. 

"  No !  No ! "  she  cried,  drawing  his  head  down 
to  her. 

But  he  took  her  by  the  wrists  and  held  her 
away  from  him  at  his  arms'  length. 

"Are  you  in  earnest?"  he  asked  fiercely.  "If 
you  play  with  me  any  more,  you  shall  die,  too." 

"  But  not  to-day ! "  she  answered  imploringly. 
"Not  to-night!  Give  me  time  —  a  day  —  a  little 
while  —  " 

"To  lose  you?  No.  I  have  been  near  losing 
you.  I  know  what  it  means.  Make  up  your  mind. 
Yes,  or  no." 

"To-night?  But  how?  There  is  not  time  — 
these  clothes  I  wear  —  " 

She  turned  her  head  distractedly  to  one  side  and 
the  other  as  she  spoke,  while  he  held  her  wrists. 
Dalrymple  saw  that  there  was  reason  in  the  objec 
tions  she  made.  So  dangerous  a  flight  could  not  be 
undertaken  without  some  preparation.  He  loosed 
her  hands  and  began  to  pace  the  room,  concentrat 
ing  his  mind  upon  the  details.  She  watched  him 
in  silence,  leaning  against  the  back  of  the  easy- 
chair.  Then  he  stopped  just  before  her. 

"  My  cloak  would  come  down  to  your  feet,"  he 
said,  measuring  her  height  with  his  eyes.  "  I  have 


CASA    BEACCIO.  149 

a  plaid  which  would  cover  your  head.  Once  on 
horseback,  no  one  would  notice  anything.  Can 
you  ride  ?  " 

"No.     I  never  learned." 

"That  is  unlucky.  But  we  can  manage  it. 
The  main  thing  would  be  to  get  a  long  start  if 
possible — that  you  should  not  be  missed  —  to 
get  away  just  at  the  beginning  of  the  longest 
time  during  which  the  nuns  would  not  expect 
to  see  you.  Where  is  your  own  room  ?  Is  it 
near  this  ?  " 

Maria  Addolorata  told  him,  and  explained  the 
position  of  the  balcony  with  the  steps  leading 
down  into  the  garden.  He  asked  her  who  kept 
the  key  of  the  postern.  It  was  in  the  possession 
of  the  gardener,  who  took  it  away  with  him  at 
night,  but  the  lock  was  on  the  inside,  and  uncov 
ered,  as  old  Italian  locks  are.  By  raising  the 
curved  spring  one  could  push  back  the  bolt.  There 
was  a  handle  on  the  latter,  for  that  purpose. 
There  would  be  no  difficulty  about  getting  out, 
nor  about  letting  Dalrymple  in,  provided  that  the 
night  were  dark. 

"The  moon  is  almost  full,"  said  Dalrymple, 
thoughtfully,  and  he  began  to  walk  up  and  down 
again.  "  Never  mind.  It  must  be  to-morrow  night. 
In  your  dark  dress,  when  the  sisters  are  asleep,  if 
you  keep  in  the  shadow  along  the  wall,  there  is  not 
the  slightest  risk.  I  will  be  waiting  for  you  on  the 


150  CASA   BRACCIO. 

other  side  of  the  gate  with  my  cloak  and  plaid. 
I  will  have  the  horses  ready,  a  little  higher  up. 
There  is  a  good  mule  path  which  goes  down  into 
the  valley  on  that  side.  You  have  only  to  reach 
the  gate  and  let  yourself  out.  It  is  very  easy. 
Tell  me  at  what  time  to  be  waiting." 

Maria  leaned  heavily  upon  the  chair,  with  bent 
head. 

"I  cannot  do  it  —  oh,  I  cannot!"  she  said  de 
spairingly.  "The  shame  of  it!  To  be  the  talk 
of  Rome  —  the  scandal  of  the  day  —  a  disgrace  to 
my  father  and  mother  !  " 

Dalrymple  frowned,  and  biting  his  lip,  he  struck 
hie  clenched  fist  softly  with  the  palm  of  his  hand, 
making  a  few  quick  steps  backward  and  forward. 
He  stopped  suddenly  and  looked  at  her  with  dan 
gerous  eyes. 

"  I  have  told  you,"  he  said.  "  I  will  not  repeat 
it.  You  must  choose." 

"  Oh,  you  cannot  be  in  earnest  —  " 

"  You  shall  see.  It  is  plain  enough,"  he  added, 
with  an  accent  of  scorn.  "  You  are  more  afraid  of 
a  little  talk  and  gossip  in  Rome,  than  of  being  told 
to-morrow  morning  that  I  died  in  the  night.  That 
is  Italian  courage,  I  suppose." 

She  hung  her  head  for  a  moment.  Then,  as  she 
heard  his  footsteps,  she  threw  her  veil  back  and 
saw  that  he  was  going  towards  the  door  without 
a  word. 


CASA   BEACCIO.  151 

"You  are  cruel/'  she  said,  half  catching  her 
breath.  "  You  know  that  you  make  me  suffer  — 
that  I  cannot  live  without  you." 

"I  shall  certainly  not  live  without  you/'  he 
answered.  "  I  mean  to  have  you  at  any  price,  or 
I  will  die  in  the  attempt  to  get  you." 

The  words  have  a  melodramatic  look  on  paper. 
But  he  spoke  them  not  only  with  his  lips,  but  with 
his  whole  self.  They  were  not  out  of  keeping  with 
his  nature.  There  is  no  more  desperate  blood  in 
the  world's  veins  than  that  of  the  Celt  when  he  is 
driven  to  bay  or  exasperated  by  passion.  In  him 
the  reckless  fatalism  of  the  Asiatic  is  blended  with 
the  cool  daring  of  the  northerner. 

Maria  Addolorata  had  little  experience  of  the 
world  or  of  men,  but  she  had  the  hereditary  in 
stincts  of  her  sex,  and  as  she  looked  at  Dalrymple 
she  recognized  in  him  the  man  who  would  do  what 
he  said,  or  forfeit  his  life  in  trying  to  do  it.  There 
is  no  mistaking  the  truth  about  such  men,  at  such 
moments. 

"  I  believe  you  would,"  she  said,  and  she  felt 
pride  in  saying  it. 

Her  own  life  was  in  the  balance.  She  bent  her 
head  again.  Her  temples  were  throbbing,  and  it 
was  hard  to  think  at  all  connectedly. 

"I  want  your  answer,"  he  said,  still  standing 
near  the  door."  "Yes  or  no  —  for  to-morrow 
night  ?  " 


152  CAS  A   BRACCIO. 

"I  cannot  live  without  you,"  she  answered 
slowly,  and  still  looking  down.  "I  must  go." 

But  she  did  not  meet  his  eyes,  for  she  knew  that 
she  was  wavering  still,  and  almost  as  uncertain  as 
before.  All  at  once  Dalrymple's  manner  changed. 
He  came  quietly  to  her  side  and  took  one  of  her 
hands,  which  hung  idly  over  the  back  of  the  chair, 
in  both  of  his. 

"  You  must  be  in  earnest,  as  I  am,  my  dear,"  he 
said,  very  calmly  and  gently.  "  You  must  not  play 
with  a  man's  life  and  heart,  as  though  they  were 
worth  nothing  but  play.  You  called  me  cruel, 
dear,  a  moment  ago.  But  you  are  more  cruel  than 
I,  for  I  do  not  hesitate." 

"I  must  go,"  she  repeated,  still  avoiding  his 
look.  "Yes,  I  must  go.  I  should  die  without 
you." 

"  But  to-morrow  when  I  come,  you  will  hesitate 
again,"  he  said,  still  speaking  very  quietly.  "I 
must  be  sure.  You  must  give  me  some  promise, 
something  more  than  you  have  given  me  yet." 

She  looked  up  with  startled  eyes. 

"  You  do  not  believe  me  ?  "  she  asked.  "  What 
shall  I  do  ?  I  —  I  promise  !  You  yourself  have 
never  said  that  you  promised." 

"  Does  it  need  that  ?."  He  pressed  the  hand  he 
held,  with  softly  increasing  strength,  between  his 
palms. 

"No,"  she  answered,  looking  at  him.      "I  can 


CASA   BBACCIO.  153 

see  it.  You  will  do  what  you  say.  I  have  prom 
ised,  too." 

He  gazed  incredulously  into  her  face. 

"  Do  you  doubt  me  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Have  I  not  reason  to  doubt  ?  You  change  your 
mind  easily.  I  do  not  blame  you.  But  how  am  I 
to  believe  ?  " 

She  grew  impatient  of  his  unbelief.  Yet  as  he 
pressed  her  hand,  the  power  he  had  over  her  in 
creased  with  every  second. 

"  But  I  will,  I  will ! "  she  cried,  in  a  low  voice. 
"  And  still  you  doubt  —  I  see  it  in  your  eyes. 
Have  I  not  promised  ?  What  more  can  I  do  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,"  he  answered.  "  But  you  must 
make  me  believe  you."  The  strength  of  his  eyes 
seemed  to  be  forcing  something  from  her. 

"  I  say  it  —  I  promise  it  —  I  swear  it !  Do  I  not 
love  you  ?  Am  I  not  giving  my  soul  for  you  ? 
Have  I  not  given  it  already  ?  What  more  can  I 
do  or  say  ?  " 

"  I  do  not-  know,"  he  answered  a  second  time, 
holding  her  with  his  eyes.  "I  must  believe  you 
before  I  go." 

He  spoke  honestly  and  earnestly,  not  meaning 
to  exasperate  her,  searching  in  her  look  for  what 
was  unmistakably  in  his  own.  His  hands  shook, 
not  weakly,  as  they  held  hers.  His  piercing  eyes 
seemed  to  see  through  and  through  her.  She 
trembled  all  over,  and  the  colour  rose  to  her  face, 


154  CAS  A   BRACCIO. 

more  in  despair  of  convincing  him  than  in  a  blush 
of  shame. 

"Believe  me!"  she  said,  imperiously,  and  her 
eyelids  contracted  with  the  effort  of  her  will. 

But  he  said  nothing.  She  felt  that  he  was 
immeasurably  stronger  than  she.  But  just  then, 
he  was  not  more  desperate.  There  was  a  short, 
intense  silence.  Her  face  grew  pale  and  was  set 
with  the  fatal  look  she  sometimes  had. 

"I  pledge  you  with  my  blood!"  she  said  sud 
denly. 

Her  eyes  did  not  waver  from  his,  but  she 
wrenched  her  right  hand  from  him,  and  before 
he  could  take  it  again,  her  even  teeth  had  met  in 
the  flesh.  The  bright  scarlet  drops  rose  high  and 
broke,  and  trickled  in  vivid  stripes  across  her 
hand  as  she  held  it  before  his  face.  Her  own  was 
very  white,  but  without  a  trace  of  pain.  Some 
thing  in  the  fierce  action  appealed  strongly  to 
the  fiery  Celtic  nature  of  the  man.  His  features 
relaxed  instantly. 

"I  believe  you,"  he  said,  and  she  knew  it  as  his 
arms  went  round  her ;  and  the  pain  of  the  wound 
made  his  kisses  sweeter. 


CHAPTEE  XI. 

WHEN  Dalrymple  left  Maria  on  that  day,  he 
returned  as  usual  to  Stefanone's  house.  Sora 
Nanna  was  alone,  for  Stefanone  was  still  absent 
in  Koine,  and  Annetta  had  gone  on  the  previous 
day  with  a  number  of  women  to  the  fair  at  Civi- 
tella  San  Sisto,  which  took  place  on  Sunday.  She 
was  expected  to  return  on  Monday  afternoon.  It 
is  usual  enough  for  a  party  of  women,  with  two 
or  three  men,  to  go  to  the  fairs  in  neighbouring 
towns  and  to  spend  the  night  with  the  friends  of 
some  one  of  the  company.  It  was  more  common 
still,  in  those  days. 

Sora  Nanna  gave  Dalrymple  his  dinner  and  kept 
him  company  for  a  while.  But  he  was  gloomy  and 
preoccupied,  and  before  long  she  retired  to  the 
regions  of  the  laundry,  which  was  installed  in  a 
long  low  building  that  ran  out  into  the  vegetable 
garden  at  the  back  of  the  house.  Monday  was 
generally  the  day  for  ironing  the  heavy  linen  of 
the  convent,  which  was  take'n  up  on  Tuesdays  in 
the  huge  baskets  carried  by  four  women,  slung  to 
a  pole  which  rested  on  their  shoulders  in  the  old 
primitive  fashion,  just  as  litters  are  still  carried  in 
155 


156  CASA    BEACCIO. 

many  parts  of  Asia.  It  had  occurred  more  than 
once  to  Dalrymple,  during  the  last  two  days,  that 
he  could  hide  almost  anything  he  chose  in  one  of 
these  baskets,  which  were  always  delivered  directly 
to  Maria  Addolorata  and  which  she  was  at  liberty 
to  unpack  in  the  privacy  of  the  linen  room  if  she 
chose. 

He  thought  of  this  again  as  he  sat  over  his  din 
ner,  and  heard  the  endless  song  of  the  women,  far 
off,  at  their  work.  He  knew  the  habits  of  the  house 
thoroughly  and  all  the  customs  regarding  the  car 
rying  up  of  the  baskets,  and  he  remembered  that 
several  of  them  would  surely  be  taken  to  the  con 
vent  on  the  morrow.  He  thought  that  if  he  could 
procure  some  more  suitable  clothes  for  Maria  to 
wear,  this  would  be  a  safe  means  of  conveying 
them  to  her.  She  could  put  them  on  in  her  cell, 
just  before  the  hour  at  which  she  was  to  expect 
him,  so  that  there  would  be  no  time  lost  and 
the  danger  of  detection  during  their  flight  would 
be  greatly  diminished.  But  there  were  all  sorts  of 
difficulties  in  the  way,  and  he  realized  them  one 
by  one,  until  he  almost  abandoned  the  scheme  in 
favour  of  the  cloak  and  plaid  which  he  had  first 
proposed. 

He  pushed  back  his  chair  and  went  upstairs  to 
his  own  room.  The  impression  made  upon  him 
by  Maria  Addolorata,  when  she  had  bitten  her 
hand,  had  been  a  strong  one,  but  the  man's  nature, 


CAS  A    BRACCIO.  157 

though  not  exactly  distrustful,  was  melancholic 
and  pessimistic.  Two  hours  and  more  had  passed 
since  they  had  been  together,  and  things  had  a  dif 
ferent  look.  He  realized  more  clearly  the  strength 
of  the  ties  which  bound  Maria  to  her  convent  life, 
and  the  effort  it  must  be  to  her  to  break  them. 
He  remembered  the  arguments  he  had  used,  and 
he  saw  that  they  had  been  those  of  passion  rather 
than  of  reason.  Their  effect  could  not  be  lasting, 
when  he  himself  was  not  there  to  lend  them  his 
words  and  the  persuasion  of  his  strength.  Maria 
would  repent  of  her  promise,  and  there  was 
nothing  to  bind  her  to  it.  Hitherto  there  had 
been  no  risk,  no  common  danger.  By  a  chain  of 
natural  circumstances  he  had  made  his  way  into 
a  most  extraordinary  position,  but  it  was  in  her 
power,  in  a  moment  of  repentance,  to  force  him 
from  it.  While  the  abbess  was  ill,  Maria  was 
virtually  mistress  of  the  convent.  At  a  word  from 
her  the  doors  might  be  shut  in  his  face.  She  might 
promise  again,  and  bite  her  hand  again,  but  when 
it  came  to  his  waiting  outside  the  garden  gate, 
she  might  be  seized  by  a  fit  of  repentance,  and 
he  might  wait  till  morning. 

As  he  sat  in  his  room  he  realized  all  this,  and 
more,  for  he  knew  that  on  calm  reflexion  he  meant 
to  do  what  he  had  that  morning  threatened  in  his 
haste.  He  had  never  been  attached  to  life  for  its 
own  sake.  Melancholic  men  often  are  not.  He 


158  CAS  A    BRACCIO. 

had  many  times  thought  over  the  subject  of  suicide 
with  a  sort  of  grim  interest  in  it,  which  indicated 
the  direction  his  temper  would  take  if  he  were  ever 
absolutely  defeated  in  a  matter  which  he  had  at 
heart. 

Nothing  he  had  ever  felt  in  his  life  had  taken 
hold  of  him  as  his  love  for  Maria  Addolorata,  for 
he  had  never  really  been  in  love  before  and  he 
had  completely  abandoned  himself  to  it,  as  such  a 
man  was  sure  to  do  in  such  surroundings.  She 
was  beautiful,  but  that  was  not  all.  Since  he  had 
heard  her  sing,  he  knew  that  her  voice  and  her 
rare  talent  together  were  genius  and  nothing  less. 
But  that  was  far  from  being  all.  She  was  of  his 
own  class,  and  he  had  been  seeing  her  daily,  when 
the  peasant  women  amongst  whom  he  lived  were 
little  more  than  good-natured  animals  ;  but  even  that 
was  not  all.  He  was  at  that  time  of  life  when  a 
man's  character  is  apt  to  take  a  violent  and  sudden 
turn  in  its  ultimate  direction,  when  the  forces  that 
have  been  growing  show  themselves  all  at  once, 
when  passion,  having  appealed  as  yet  but  to  the  man, 
has  climbed  and  is  within  reach  of  his  soul,  to  take 
hold  of  it  and  twist  it,  or  to  be  finally  conquered, 
perhaps,  in  a  holy  life.  But  Dalrymple  was  very 
far  from  being  the  kind  of  man  who  could  have 
taken  refuge  against  himself  in  higher  things.  At 
a  time  when  materialism  was  beginning  to  seem  a 
great  thing,  he  was  a  strong  materialist  in  scientific 


CASA    BRACCIO.  159 

questions.  He  grasped  what  he  could  see  and  held 
it,  but  what  he  could  not  see  had  no  existence  for 
him.  Nothing  transcendental  attracted  him  beyond 
the  sphere  of  mathematics.  Yet  he  had  not  the 
materialist's  temperament,  for  the  Highland  blood 
in  his  veins  brought  strong  fancies  and  sudden  pas 
sions  to  his  head  and  heart,  such  as  his  chemistry 
could  not  explain ;  and  when  the  brain  burned  and  the 
heart  beat  fast,  it  meant  doing  or  dying  with  him, 
as  with  many  a  Scotchman  before  and  since.  Life 
had  never  seemed  to  be  worth  much  in  his  eyes, 
compared  with  a  thing  he  wanted. 

He  sat  still  and  thought  the  matter  over,  and 
considered  the  question  of  death,  for  a  few  short 
minutes.  There  was  not  a  trace  of  philosophical 
speculation  in  his  reflexions,  or  they  would  have 
lasted  longer.  He  merely  desired  to  be  sure,  with 
that  curious  Scotch  caution,  of  his  own  intentions, 
in  order  not  to  be  obliged  to  think  the  matter  over 
again  at  the  last  minute. 

He  had  drunk  a  measure  of  strong  wine  with  his 
dinner,  as  usual.  To-day  it  increased  the  gloom  of 
his  temper,  and  the  pessimistic  view  he  took.  In 
less  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour  he  had  made  up  his 
mind  that  if  Maria  Addolorata  repented  at  a  late 
hour  and  refused  to  leave  the  convent,  he  would 
make  an  attempt  to  carry  her  away  by  force.  If 
he  failed,  and  found  himself  shut  off  from  all  pos 
sibility  of  intercourse  with  her,  life  would  not  be 


160  CASA   BBACCIO. 

worth  living,  and  he  would  throw  it  away.  When 
strong  men  are  in  that  frame  of  mind,  they  gener 
ally  accomplish  what  they  have  in  view.  More 
over,  it  is  a  great  mistake  to  think  that  the  people 
who  think  and  talk  of  suicide  will  not  take  their 
own  lives.  On  the  contrary,  statistics  show  that 
it  is  more  often  those  who  speak  of  it  the  most 
frequently,  who  ultimately  make  away  with  them 
selves.  The  mere  fact  of  contemplating  and  dis 
cussing  death  familiarizes  man  with  it  till  he 
does  not  even  attribute  to  it  its  true  value,  which 
is  little  enough,  as  most  of  us  know.  Dalrymple 
was  in  earnest,  and  he  knew  it. 

He  rose  from  his  chair  and  unlocked  his  little 
laboratory.  Among  many  other  things  upon  the  long 
table  there  was  a  plain  English  oak  box,  filled  with 
small  stoppered  bottles,  each  having  a  label  upon  it 
with  the  name  of  the  contents  written  in  his  own 
hand.  Some  were  merely  medicines,  which  he  car 
ried  with  him  in  case  his  services  should  ever  be 
required,  as  had  happened  at  the  present  time. 
Others  were  chemicals  which  he  used  in  his  experi 
ments,  such  as  he  eould  not  easily  have  procured  in 
Italy,  outside  of  the  great  cities.  One  even  con 
tained  the  common  spirits  of  camphor,  of  which  he 
had  once  given  Annetta  a  teaspoonful  when  she 
had  complained  of  a  chill  and  sickness.  One,  how 
ever,  was  more  than  half  full  of  a  solution  of  hydro- 
cyanide  of  potassium,  a  liquid  little  less  suddenly 


CAS  A   BRACCIO.  161 

and  surely  fatal  than  the  prussic  acid  which  enters 
into  its  composition. 

He  took  out  this  bottle  and  held  it  up  to  the 
light.  The  liquid  was  clear  and  transparent  as 
water.  He  watched  it  curiously  as  he  made  it  run 
up  to  the  neck  and  back  again.  It  might  have  been 
taken  for  pure  alcohol,  being  absolutely  colourless. 

"  It  would  not  take  much  of  that/'  he  said  to  him 
self,  with  a  grim  smile. 

His  meditations  were  interrupted  by  the  voice  of 
Sora  Nanna,  who  had  opened  his  bedroom  door 
without  ceremony  and  stood  calling  to  him.  He 
came  forward  hastily  from  the  laboratory  and  went 
up  to  her. 

"  You  do  not  know ! "  she  cried,  laughing  and 
holding  up  a  letter.  "Stefanone  has  written  to 
me  from  Rome !  To  me !  Who  the  devil  knows 
what  he  says  ?  I  do  not  understand  anything  of 
it.  Who  should  teach  me  to  read  ?  He  takes  me 
for  a  priest,  that  I  should  know  how  to  read ! " 

Dalrymple  laughed  a  little  as  he  took  the  letter. 
He  picked  up  his  hat  from  a  chair,  for  he  meant  to 
go  out  and  spend  the  afternoon  alone  upon  the  hill 
side. 

"  We  will  read  it  downstairs,"  he  said.  "  I  am 
going  for  a  walk." 

He  read  it  to  her  in  the  common  room  on  the 
ground  floor.  It  was  a  letter  dictated  by  Stefa 
none  to  a  public  scribe,  instructing  his  wife  to  tell 

VOL.   I.  M 


162  CASA    BRACCIO. 

Gigetto  that  she  must  send  another  load  of  wine  to 
Koine  as  soon  as  possible,  as  the  price  was  good  in 
the  market.  Stefauone  would  remain  in  the  city 
till  it  came,  and  sell  it  before  returning. 

"  These  husbands  ! "  exclaimed  Sora  Nanna,  with 
a  grin.  "  What  they  will  not  do !  They  go,  rid 
ing,  riding,  and  they  come  back  when  it  seems  good 
to  them.  Who  tells  me  what  he  does  in  Rome  ? 
Rome  is  great." 

Dalrymple  laughed,  put  on  his  hat  and  went  off, 
leaving  Sora  Nanna  to  find  Gigetto  and  give  the 
necessary  directions. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

GIGETTO  had  refused  to  accompany  Annetta  and 
her  party  to  the  fair  at  Civitella  San  Sisto.  He 
had  been  to  Rome  several  times,  and  was  far  too 
fine  a  young  gentleman  to  divert  himself  in  such  a 
very  primitive  place.  He  preferred  to  spend  his 
leisure  hours,  which  were  very  many,  in  elegant 
idleness,  according  to  his  lights,  between  the  tobac 
conist's,  the  chemist's  shop,  which  was  the  resort 
of  all  the  superior  men  of  the  place  after  four 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  and  the  abundant,  though 
not  very  refined  table  which  was  spread  twice  daily 
in  his  father's  house.  Civitella  wine,  Civitella  fire 
works,  and  especially  Civitella  girls,  were  quite 
beneath  his  notice.  As  for  Annetta,  he  looked  upon 
her  with  something  like  contempt,  though  he  had 
a  high  respect  for  the  fortune  which  must  one  day 
be  hers.  She  was  to  be  a  necessary  encumbrance 
of  his  future  life,  and  for  the  present  he  meant  to 
see  as  little  of  her  as  was  conveniently  possible 
without  relinquishing  his  claims  to  her  hand.  She 
had  admired  him,  in  a  way,  until  the  arrival  of  Dal- 
rymple,  and  he  felt  a  little  irritation  at  the  Scotch 
man's  presence  in  the  house,  so  that  he  occasionally 
163 


164  CAS  A    BBACCIO. 

frightened  Sora  Nanna  by  talking  of  waiting  for 
him  with  a  gun  at  the  corner  of  the  forest.  It 
produced  a  good  impression,  he  thought,  to  show 
from  time  to  time  that  he  was  not  without  jeal 
ousy.  But  as  for  going  with  her  on  such  an  ex 
pedition  as  a  visit  to  a  country  fair,  it  was  not 
to  be  expected  of  him. 

Nevertheless,  Annetta  had  enjoyed  herself  thor 
oughly  with  her  companions,  and  was  very  glad 
that  Gigetto  had  not  been  at  her  elbow  with  his 
city  notions  of  propriety,  which  he  applied  to  her, 
but  made  as  elastic  as  he  pleased  for  himself.  She 
had  been  to  high  mass  in  the  village  church, 
crowded  to  suffocation,  she  had  walked  up  and 
down  the  main  street  half  the  afternoon,  arm  in 
arm  with  the  other  girls,  giggling  and  showing  off 
her  handsome  costume  to  the  poorer  natives  of 
the  little  place,  and  smiling  wickedly  at  the  hand 
some  youths  who  stood  idly  in  groups  at  the  cor 
ners  of  the  streets.  She  had  dined  sumptuously, 
and  had  made  her  eyes  sparkle  like  rather  vulgar 
little  stars  by  drinking  a  glass  of  strong  old  white 
wine  to  the  health  and  speedy  marriage  of  all  the 
other  girls.  She  had  gone  out  with  them  at  dusk, 
and  had  watched  the  pretty  fireworks  in  the  small 
piazza,  and  had  wandered  on  with  them  afterwards 
in  the  moonlight  to  the  ruin  of  the  Cyclopean 
fortress  which  overlooks  the  two  valleys.  Then 
back  to  the  house  of  her  friends,  who  kept  the 


CAS  A    BEACCIO.  165 

principal  inn,  and  more  tough  chicken  and  tender 
salad  and  red  wine  for  supper.  And  on  the  next 
day  they  had  all  gone  down  to  the  meagre  vine 
yards,  half  way  to  San  Vito  and  just  below  the 
thick  chestnut  woods  which  belong  to  the  Marchese 
and  feudal  lord  of  that  ancient  town.  And  there 
amongst  the  showers  of  reddening  vine  leaves,  she 
had  helped  to  gather  the  last  grapes  of  the  year, 
with  song  and  jest  and  laughter.  At  noon  they 
climbed  the  hill  again  in  the  October  sun,  and 
dined  upon  the  remains  of  the  previous  day's  feast ; 
thenr  singing  still,  they  had  started  on  their  home 
ward  downward  way,  happy  and  not  half  tired  yet 
when  they  reached  Subiaco  in  the  evening  glow. 

They  came  trooping  through  the  town  to  the 
little  piazza  in  which  the  doctor's  house  was  situ 
ated.  They  separated  here,  some  to  go  up  to  the 
higher  part,  while  others  were  to  go  down  in  the 
same  direction  as  Annetta.  The  girl  looked  up 
at  the  doctor's  windows,  and  he^r  small  eyes  flashed 
viciously.  It  would  be  a  pleasant  ending  to  the 
two  days'  holiday  to  have  a  look  at  her  work. 
Now  that  he  was  getting  well,  as  Dalrymple  told 
her,  she  was  glad  that  she  had  not  killed  him.  It 
was  an  even  greater  satisfaction  to  have  almost 
frightened  the  old  coward  to  death.  She  had  been 
uneasy  about  the  question  of  confession. 

"  By  Bacchus,"  she  laughed,  "  I  will  go  and  see 
Sor  Tommaso.  They  say  he  is  better." 


166  CASA    BBACCIO. 

So  she  took  leave  of  her  companions  and  entered 
the  narrow  door,  and  climbed  the  short  flight  of 
dark  steps  and  knocked.  The  doctor's  sleeping- 
room  opened  directly  upon  the  staircase.  He  used 
the  room  on  the  ground  floor  as  an  office  and  din 
ing-room,  his  old  peasant  woman-servant  slept  in 
the  attic,  and  the  other  two  rooms  were  let  by  the 
year.  It  was  a  very  small  house. 

The  old  woman,  whose  name  was  Serafina,  opened 
the  bedroom  door  and  thrust  out  her  head,  covered 
with  a  dark  and  threadbare  shawl.  There  was  a 
sibylline  gloom  about  her  withered  face,  as  though 
she  had  lived  a  lifetime  in  the  face  of  a  horror  to 
come. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  "  she  croaked  roughly,  and 
not  opening  the  door  any  wider. 

"Eh !  What  do  I  want  ?  I  am  the  Annetta  of 
Stefanone,  and  I  have  come  to  pay  a  visit  to  this 
dear  doctor,  because  they  say  that  he  is  better,  God 
bless  him." 

"Oh!  I  did  not  recognize  you,"  said  the  old 
woman.  "  I  will  ask." 

Still  holding  the  door  almost  closed,  she  drew  in 
her  head  and  spoke  with  Sor  Tommaso.  Annetta 
could  hear  his  answer. 

"  Of  course  !  "  he  said,  in  a  voice  still  weak,  but 
singularly  oily  with  the  politeness  of  his  intention. 
"  Let  her  favour  us ! " 

The  door  was  opened,  and  Annetta  went  in.     Sor 


CASA    BBACCIO.  167 

Tommaso  was  sitting  up  near  the  window,  in  a  deep 
easy-chair  covered  with  ragged  green  damask.  The 
girl  was  surprised  by  his  pallor,  as  compared  with 
his  formerly  rubicund  complexion.  Peasant-like, 
she  glanced  about  the  room  to  judge  of  its  con 
tents  before  she  spoke. 

"  How  are  you,  dear  Sor  Tommaso  ? "  she  asked 
after  the  short  pause.  "Eh,  what  we  have  suf 
fered  for  you,  all  of  us !  Who  was  this  barbarian 
who  wished  to  send  you  to  Paradise  ?  " 

"Who  knows?"  returned  Sor  Tommaso,  with 
amazing  blandness.  "  I  trust  that  he  may  be  for 
given  as  I  forgive  him." 

"  What  it  is  to  be  a  wise  man ! "  exclaimed  An- 
netta,  with  affected  admiration.  "To  have  such 
sentiments  !  It  is  a  beautiful  thing.  And  how  do 
you  feel  now,  dear  Sor  Tommaso  ?  Are  you  get 
ting  your  strength  again  ?  They  took  your  blood, 
those  cowardly  murderers !  You  must  make  it 
again." 

Their  eyes  met,  and  each  knew  that  the  other 
knew  and  understood.  Sor  Tommaso  smiled  gently. 
The  savage  girl's  mouth  twitched  as  though  she 
should  have  liked  to  laugh. 

"Little  by  little;  who  goes  slowly  goes  safely," 
answered  the  doctor.  "  I  am  an  old  man,  you  must 
know." 

"  Old ! "  Annetta  was  glad  of  the  opportunity 
to  laugh  at  last.  "  Old  ?  Eh,  on  Sunday,  when 


168  CASA    BRACCIO. 

you  have  on  those  new  black  trousers  of  yours  that 
are  tight,  tight  —  you  seem  to  me  a  boy  as  young 
as  Gigetto.  For  my  part,  I  should  prefer  you. 
You  are  more  serious.  Gigetto !  What  must  I 
say  ?  He  is  handsome,  he  may  be  good,  but  he  has 
not  a  head.  There  is  nothing  in  that  pumpkin." 

"Blood  of  youth,"  answered  Sor  Tommaso.  "It 
must  boil.  It  must  fling  its  chains  about.  After 
wards  it  begins  to  know  the  chains.  Little  by  little 
it  accustoms  itself  to  them.  Then  it  is  quiet,  quiet, 
as  we  old  ones  are.  Sit  down,  my  daughter.  Sera- 
fina !  A  chair  —  the  one  that  is  not  lame.  These 
chairs  remember  the  blessed  soul  of  mamma,"  added 
Sor  Tommaso,  in  explanation  of  their  weakness. 

"Requiesca'  !"  exclaimed  Annetta,  sitting  down. 

"  Amen,"  responded  Sor  Tommaso.  "  You  are 
so  beautiful  to-day,"  he  continued,  looking  at  her 
flowered  bodice  and  new  apron ;  "  where  have  you 
been  ?  " 

"Where  should  I  go  ?  To  Civitella.  There  was 
the  fair.  We  ate  certain  chickens  —  tough !  But 
the  air  of  the  mountain  consumes.  There  were 
also  fireworks." 

"  What  ?  Have  you  walked  ?  "  asked  Sor  Tom 
maso. 

"  Even  with  two  legs  one  can  walk,"  laughed  the 
girl.  "  But  of  course  a  beast  is  better  with  four. 
The  beasts  had  all  gone  to  Tivoli  with  wine  for 
Home.  They  had  not  come  back  yesterday  morn- 


CAS  A    BRACCIO.  169 

ing.  Therefore  with  these  two  feet  I  walked. 
I  and  many  others,  girls  like  me.  It  is  true  that 
I  am  half  dead." 

"You  are  fresher  than  lettuce,"  observed  Sor 
Tommaso.  "And  then  you  have  climbed  up  my 
stairs.  This  is  a  true  Christian  act.  God  return  it 
to  you.  I  am  alone  all  day." 

"But  the  Englishman  comes  to  see  you/'  said 
Annetta,  indifferently. 

"The  Englishman,  yes.  He  comes.  More  or 
less,  he  has  almost  cured  me.  But  then,  for  his 
conversation,  I  say  nothing ! " 

"  Meanwhile  he  is  also  curing  the  abbess.  He 
has  a  fortunate  hand.  There  death,  here  death  — 
he  makes  them  all  alive.  Where  is  death,  now  ? 
Here,  perhaps  ?  Hidden  in  some  corner,  or  under 
the  bed  ?  He  has  certain  medicines,  that  English 
man  !  Medicines  that  you  do  not  even  dream  of. 
Strong!  It  is  I  that  tell  you.  Sometimes,  the 
whole  house  smells  of  them.  Death  could  not  re 
sist  them  a  moment.  They  drive  even  the  flies  out 
of  the  windows.  The  Englishman  gave  me  some 
once.  I  had  been  in  the  sun  and  had  drunk  a  gal 
lon  of  cold  water,  foolish  as  I  was.  I  was  thirsty, 
as  I  am  now.  Well,  he  gave  me  a  spoonful  of 
something  like  water,  mixed  in  water.  I  do  not 
tell  you  anything.  At  first  it  burned  me.  Arch- 
priest,  it  burned !  Then,  not  even  a  minute,  and 
I  had  Paradise  in  my  body.  And  so  it  passed." 


170  CASA   BRACCIO. 

"  Who  knows  ?  A  cordial,  perhaps,"  observed 
Sor  Tommaso,  thoughtfully.  "I  have  such  cor 
dials,  too." 

"  I  do  not  doubt  it,"  answered  the  girl,  sus 
piciously.  "But  I  would  rather  not  taste  them. 
I  feel  quite  well." 

It  crossed  her  mind  that  in  return  for  three 
knife-thrusts,  Sor  Tommaso  would  probably  not 
miss  so  good  a  chance  of  paying  her  with  a  glass 
of  poison.  She  would  certainly  have  done  as  much 
herself,  had  she  been  in  his  place. 

"Who  thought  of  offering  you  cordials  !"  replied 
the  doctor,  with  a  polite  laugh.  "  I  said  it  to  say 
it.  But  if  you  are  thirsty,  command  me.  There 
is  water  and  good  wine.  They  are  the  best  cor 
dials." 

"Eh,  a  little  water.  I  do  not  refuse.  As  for 
the  wine,  no.  I  thank  you  the  same.  I  am  fasting 
and  have  walked.  After  supper,  at  home,  I  will 
drink." 

"  Serafina ! "  cried  Sor  Tommaso,  and  the  old 
sibyl  immediately  appeared  from  the  stairs,  whither 
she  had  discreetly  retired  to  wait  during  Annetta's 
visit.  "Bring  water,  and  that  bottle  of  my  wine 
from  downstairs.  You  know,  the  bottle  of  old 
wine  of  Stefanone's  that  was  opened." 

"No,  no.     I  want  no  wine,"  said  Annetta,  quickly. 

"  Bring  it  all  the  same.  Perhaps  she  will  do  us 
the  honour  to  drink  it." 


CAS  A    BRACCIO.  171 

Serafina  nodded,  and  her  bare  feet  were  heard 
on  the  stone  steps  as  she  descended. 

"It  is  bad  to  drink  pure  water  when  one  is  very 
thirsty,"  said  Sor  Tommaso.  "  It  cramps  the  stom 
ach.  A  little  wine  gives  the  stomach  strength. 
But  it  is  best  to  eat.  If  you  will  eat,  there  are 
fresh  jumbles.  I  also  eat  them." 

"I  thank  you  the  same,"  answered  Annetta. 
"I  wish  only  water.  It  is  a  long  way  from  Civi- 
tella,  and  there  is  no  good  spring.  There  is  the 
brook  that  runs  out  of  the  pond  at  the  foot  of  the 
last  hill.  But  it  is  heavy  water,  full  of  stuff." 

Serafina  came  back,  bringing  two  heavy  tumblers 
of  pressed  glass  on  a  little  black  japanned  tray, 
_with  a  decanter  of  cold  water.  In  her  other  hand 
she  carried  two  bottles,  one  half  full  of  wine,  the 
other  containing  the  white  and  sugary  syrup  of 
peach  kernels  of  which  Italians  are  so  fond. 

"  I  brought  this  also,"  she  said,  holding  up  the 
bottle  as  she  set  down  the  tray.  "Perhaps  it  is 
better." 

"  Yes,"  said  Sor  Tommaso,  nodding  in  approba 
tion.  "  It  is  better." 

"  You  will  drink  a  little  orgeat  ?  "  asked  the  old 
woman,  in  a  tone  of  persuasion,  and  mixing  it  in 
the  glass. 

"Water,  simply  water,"  said  Annetta,  who  was 
still  suspicious.  "  Give  me  water  in  the  other 
glass." 


172  CASA    BBACCIO. 

"But  I  have  mixed  already  in  both,"  answered 
Serafina.  "Eh,  you  will  drink  it.  You  will  not 
make  an  old  woman  like  me  go  all  the  way  down 
the  stairs  again.  But  then,  it  is  good.  It  is  I  that 
tell  you.  I  made  it  myself,  yesterday  morning,  for 
the  doctor,  to  refresh  his  blood  a  little." 

Annetta  had  risen  to  her  feet  and  was  watching 
the  glasses,  as  the  old  woman  stirred  the  white 
syrup  in  the  water  with  an  old-fashioned,  long- 
handled  spoon.  She  did  not  wish  to  seem  absurdly 
suspicious,  and  yet  she  distrusted  her  enemy. 
She  took  one  of  the  glasses,  went  to  his  side,  and 
held  it  to  his  lips  as  one  gives  an  invalid  drink. 

"After  you,"  he  said,  with  a  polite  smile,  but 
raising  his  hand  to  take  the  glass. 

"  Sick  people  first,  well  people  afterwards," 
answered  Annetta,  smiling  too,  but  watching  him 
intently. 

He  had  satisfied  himself  that  she  really  sus 
pected  foul  play,  for  he  knew  the  peasants  well, 
and  was  only  a  degree  removed  from  them  himself. 
He  at  once  dismissed  her  suspicions  by  drinking 
half  the  tumbler  at  a  draught.  She  immediately 
took  the  other  and  emptied  it  eagerly,  as  she  was 
really  very  thirsty. 

"A  little  more?"  suggested  Serafina,  in  her 
croaking  voice. 

"No,"  interposed  Sor  Tommaso.  "It  might 
hurt  her  —  so  much  at  once." 


CASA    BBACCIO.  173 

But  Annetta  filled  the  tumbler  with  pure  water, 
and  emptied  it  again. 

"At  last!"  she  exclaimed  with  a  sigh  of  satis 
faction.  "  What  thirst !  I  seemed  to  have  eaten 
ashes !  And  now  I  thank  you,  Sor  Toinmaso,  and 
I  am  going  home ;  for  it  is  Ave  Maria,  and  I  do  not 
wish  to  make  a  bad  meeting  in  the  dark  as  hap 
pened  to  you.  Ugly  assassins !  I  will  never  for 
give  them,  never !  What  am  I  to  say  at  home  ? 
That  you  will  come  to  supper  one  of  these 
days  ?  " 

"Eh,  if  God  wills,"  answered  the  doctor.  "  I  will 
be  accompanied  by  Serafina." 

"  I !  "  exclaimed  the  old  woman.  "  I  am  afraid 
even  of  a  cat !  What  could  I  do  for  you  ?  " 

"Company  is  always  company,"  said  Sor  Tom- 
maso,  wisely.  "Where  one  would  not  go,  two  go 
bravely.  Good  evening,  my  beautiful  daughter," 
he  added,  looking  up  at  Annetta.  "  The  Madonna 
go  with  you." 

"Thank  you,  and  good  evening,"  answered  the 
girl,  dropping  half  a  courtsey,  with  a  vicious  twinkle 
in  her  little  eyes. 

She  turned,  and  was  out  of  the  room  in  a  moment. 
On  the  way  home'  through  the  narrow  streets  in 
the  evening  glow,  she  sang  snatches  of  song  to  her 
self,  and  thought  of  all  she  had  said  to  Sor  Tom- 
maso,  and  of  all  he  had  said  to  her,  and  of  how 
much  afraid  he  was  of  her  father's  knife.  For 


174  CAS  A   BBACCIO. 

otherwise,  as  she  knew,  he  would  have  had  her 
arrested. 

Suddenly,  at  the  last  turning  she  stopped  and 
turned  very  pale,  clasping  both  hands  upon  her 
bodice. 

"Assassin!"  she  groaned,  grinding  her  short 
white  teeth.  "  He  has  poisoned  me,  after  all !  An 
evil  death  to  him  and  all  his  house  !  Assassin ! " 

She  forgot  that  she  had  experienced  precisely 
the  same  sensations  once  before,  when  she  had  been 
overheated  and  had  swallowed  too  much  cold  water. 


CHAPTEE  XIII. 

WITH  slow  steps,  and  pressing  her  clasped  hands 
to  her  bodice,  the  girl  reached  the  door  of  her 
father's  hoxise  at  dusk.  She  knew  that  he  was 
away,  and  that  as  she  had  not  come  home  earlier 
her  mother  would  be  in  the  lower  regions  preparing 
Dairy  mple's  supper  for  him.  The  door  which  gave 
access  to  the  staircase  from  the  street  was  still 
open,  and  she  was  almost  sure  of  being  able  to 
reach  her  own  room  unobserved,  unless  she  chanced 
to  come  upon  Dairy mple  himself  on  the  stairs. 
Just  then  she  would  rather  have  met  him  than  her 
mother.  She  was  in  great  pain,  and  it  would  have 
been  hard  to  explain  to  Sora  Nanna  that  she  be 
lieved  herself  to  have  been  deliberately  poisoned. 

She  crept  noiselessly  up  the  stairs,  which  were 
almost  dark,  and  she  came  to  Dairy  mple's  door 
which  faced  the  first  landing.  She  paused  and 
hesitated,  leaning  against  the  wall.  He  was  a 
wise  man  in  her  opinion,  and  would  of  course  un 
derstand  her  symptoms  at  once.  But  then,  as  she 
was  poisoned,  he  could  do  nothing  for  her.  If  that 
were  true,  her  next  thought  told  her  that  Sor  Tom- 
maso  must  have  poisoned  himself.  He  would  not 
175 


176  CAS  A   BRACCIO. 

do  that.  She  had  never  heard  of  antidotes;  for 
though  poisoning  was  traditionally  familiar  to  her 
and  the  people  of  her  class,  it  was  very  uncommon. 
Yet  her  sharpened  wit  told  her  that  if  Sor  Tommaso 
had  swallowed  the  stuff,  as  he  had  done,  with  a 
smile,  he  had  means  at  his  disposal  for  counter 
acting  it  —  some  medicine  which  he  had  doubtless 
taken  as  soon  as  she  had  left  him.  But  if  he  had 
medicine  to  save  from  poison,  Dalryrnple,  who 
was  a  far  wiser  man,  must  have  such  medicines, 
too,  and  even  better  ones.  This  reflexion  decided 
her.  She  was  close  to  his  door.  It  was  probable 
that  he  would  be  in  his  room  at  that  hour.  She 
was  in  fear  of  her  life,  and  she  knocked. 

But  Dalrymple  had  not  come  back.  He  had 
gone  for  a  long  walk  alone  in  the  hills,  had  climbed 
higher  as  the  sun  sank  lower,  and  was  belated 
in  steep  paths  along  which  even  his  mountain- 
trained  feet  trod  with  some  caution.  He  was  too 
familiar  with  the  country  to  lose  his  way,  but  he 
by  no  means  found  the  shortest  way  there  was, 
nor  was  he  especially  anxious  to  do  so.  The  hours 
would  pass  sooner  in  walking  than  in  sitting  over 
his  books  under  the  flaring  little  flames  of  the  three 
brass  beaks. 

Annetta  saw  that  there  was  no  light  in  the  room, 
for  the  hole  through  which  the  latch-string  hung 
was  worn  wide  with  use.  She  felt  dizzy,  too,  and 
the  knife-like  pain  ran  through  her  so  that  she 


CAS  A    BEACCIO.  177 

bent  herself.  She  knew  that  Dalrymple  kept  his 
medicines  locked  up  in  the  laboratory,  and  that  she 
could  not  get  at  them,  though  she  would  have  had 
little  hesitation  in  swallowing  anything  she  found, 
in  the  simple  certainty  that  all  his  medicines  must 
be  good  in  themselves,  and  therefore  life-saving  and 
good  for  her.  But  he  was  out,  and  she  was  sure 
that  there  could  be  nothing  in  the  bedroom.  She 
had  herself  too  often  looked  into  every  corner  when 
she  watered  and  swept  the  brick  floor  each  morn 
ing,  and  put  things  in  order  according  to  her 
primitive  ideas. 

She  then  and  there  lost  her  hold  upon  life.  She 
was  poisoned,  and  must  die.  She  was  as  sure  of 
it  as  the  Chinaman  who  has  seen  an  eagle,  and 
who,  recognizing  that  his  hour  is  come,  calmly  lies 
down  and  breathes  his  last  by  the  mere  suspension 
of  volition.  In  old  countries  the  lower  orders,  as 
a  rule,  have  but  a  low  vitality.  It  may  be  truer 
to  say  that  the  vital  volition  is  weak.  Let  the 
learned  settle  the  definition.  The  fact  is  easily 
accounted  for.  During  generations  upon  genera 
tions  the  majority  of  European  agricultural  popu 
lations  live  upon  vegetable  food,  like  the  majority 
of  Eastern  Asiatics,  and  with  the  same  result. 
Hard  labour  produces  hard  muscles,  but  vegetable 
food  yields  a  low  vital  tension,  so  to  say.  Soldiers 
know  it  well  enough.  The  pale-faced  city  clerk 
who  eats  meat  twice  a  day  will  out-fight  and  out- 

VOL.   I.  N 


178  CASA    BBACCIO. 

last  and  out-starve  the  burly  labourer  whose  big 
thews  and  sinews  are  mostly  compounded  of  pota 
toes,  corn,  and  water. 

The  girl  crept  up  the  stairs  stealthily  to  her 
lonely  little  room,  and  lay  down  to  die  upon  her 
bed,  as  though  that  were  the  only  thing  to  be  done 
under  the  circumstances.  It  never  occurred  to  her 
to  go  to  her  mother  and  tell  her  what  had  happened 
and  what  she  suspected,  any  more  than  it  had  sug 
gested  itself  to  Sor  Tommaso  to  lay  information 
against  her  for  having  stabbed  him.  If  her  father 
had  been  at  home,  she  might  perhaps  have  gone  to 
him  and  told  him  with  her  dying  breath  that  the 
doctor  had  killed  her,  and  that  Stefanone  must 
avenge  her.  But  he  was  away.  She  was  stronger 
than  her  mother  and  had  always  dominated  her. 
She  knew  also  that  if  she  complained,  Sora  Nanna 
would  raise  such  a  scream  as  would  bring  half 
Subiaco  running  to  the  house.  The  girl's  animal 
instinct  was  to  die  alone,  and  quietly.  So  she 
made  no  sound,  and  lay  upon  her  bed  writhing 
in  pain  and  holding  her  sides  with  all  her  might, 
but  with  close-set  teeth  and  silent  lips. 

Looked  at  from  the  point  of  view  of  fact,  it  was 
all  ridiculous  enough.  The  girl  had  been  all  day 
in  the  hot  autumn  sun,  had  eaten  a  quantity  of 
over-ripe  figs  and  grapes,  which  might  have  upset 
the  digestion  of  an  ostrich,  had  tired  even  her 
strong  limbs  with  the  final  walk  home,  and  had 


CA8A    BEACCIO.  ^  179 

then,  at  Sor  Tommaso's  house,  swallowed  nearly  a 
quart  of  ice-cold  water.  It  was  not  surprising  that 
she  should  be  very  ill.  It  was  not  even  strange 
that  the  theory  of  poison  should  suggest  itself.  To 
her  it  was  tragedy,  and  meant  nothing  less  than 
death,  when  she  lay  down  upon  her  bed. 

Between  the  spasms  all  sorts  of  things  passed 
through  her  mind,  when  her  head  lay  still  upon 
the  pillow.  Chiefly  and  particularly  her  thoughts 
were  filled  with  hatred  of  Sor  Tommaso,  and  a  sort 
of  doglike  longing  to  see  Dairy mple's  face  before 
she  died.  She  was  still  fascinated  by  the  vision 
of  his  red  hair  and  bright  blue  eyes  which  came 
back  to  her  vividly,  with  the  careless  smile  his 
hard  face  had  for  her  half-childish,  half -malicious 
sayings.  And  with  the  thought  of  him  came  also 
jealousy  of  Maria  Addolorata,  and  another  hatred 
which  was  deeper  and  stronger  and  more  venge 
ful  than  any  she  owed  Sor  Tommaso.  She  felt, 
rather  than  understood,  that  Dalrymple  loved  the 
nun  with  all  his  heart.  She  had  spoken  of  her 
to  him  and  had  watched  his  face,  and  had  seen  the 
quick,  savage  glare  of  his  eyes,  though  his  voice 
had  only  expressed  his  annoyance.  As  the  vision 
of  him  rose  before  her,  she  saw  him  as  he  had  been 
when  the  angry  blush  had  overspread  his  face  to 
the  roots  of  his  hair. 

The  image  fixed  itself.  In  the  dim  shadow 
behind  it,  she  saw  the  face  of  Maria  Addolorata 


180  CASA    BBACCIO. 

like  a  death-mask,  and  those  strange,  deep  eyes  of 
the  nun's  looking  scornfully  at  her  over  the  man's 
shoulder,  though  she  forgot  him  in  the  woman's 
deadly  fascination.  She  stared,  unable  to  close 
her  lids,  as  it  seemed  to  her,  though  she  longed 
to  shut  out  the  sight.  Then  a  dull  noise  seemed 
to  be  in  her  ears,  a  noise  that  was  not  a  sound, 
but  the  stunning  effect  on  her  brain  of  a  sound  not 
heard  but  imagined.  There  were  great  circles  of 
light  around  the  nun's  head,  which  cut  through 
Dalrymple's  face  and  then  hid  it.  They  were  like 
glories,  like  the  halos  about  the  heads  of  saints. 
Annetta  was  angry  with  them,  for  she  was  sure 
that  Maria  Addolorata  was  bad,  and  sinned  in  her 
throat. 

"  An  evil  death  on  you  and  all  your  house !  "  cried 
the  angry  peasant  girl,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Death ! "  She  could  not  tell  whence  the  echo 
came  back  to  her,  in  a  tone  strange  to  her  ears  — 
for  it  was  her  own,  perhaps. 

She  was  startled.  The  vision  vanished,  and  she 
sat  up  on  her  bed  with  a  quick  movement,  sud 
denly  wide  awake.  The  pain  must  have  passed. 
No  —  it  came  again,  but  with  far  less  keenness. 
She  felt  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  laughed 
softly,  for  she  knew  that  she  was  alive.  It  was 
night,  and  she  must  have  lain  some  time  there  all 
alone,  for  there  was  a  silvery,  misty  something 
through  the  darkness,  the  white  dawn  of  moonrise, 


CAS  A    BEACCIO.  181 

which  is  not  like  the  dawn  of  day,  nor  like  the 
departing  twilight.  As  she  sat  up  she  saw  the 
outline  of  the  hills,  jagged  against  the  crosses  of 
the  lead-joined  panes  in  the  window.  There  was 
the  inoon-dawn  sending  up  its  soft  radiance  to  the 
sky.  A  little  longer  she  watched,  and  a  single 
bright  point  sent  one  level  ray  straight  into  her 
face.  A  moment  more  and  the  room  was  flooded 
with  light  so  that  she  could  see  the  smallest  objects 
distinctly. 

"  But  I  am  alive !  "  she  exclaimed  in  a  soft,  glad 
tone.  "The  brigand  only  did  me  a  spite.  He 
was  afraid  to  kill  me." 

The  pain  seized  her  again,  less  sharp  than  before, 
but  keen  enough  to  stir  her  anger.  She  still  sat 
up,  but  bent  forward,  clasping  her  bodice.  In  the 
moonlight  she  could  see  her  heavy  shoes  on  her 
feet  sticking  up  before  her.  Realizing  that  it  was 
a  disgraceful  thing  to  lie  down  with  them  on,  she 
sprang  off  the  bed,  and  began  to  dust  the  coverlet 
with  her  hand.  The  pain  passed. 

After  all,  she  reflected,  she  had  swallowed  a 
quantity  of  cold  water  at  Sor  Tommaso's,  whether 
the  first  glass  had  contained  any  poison  or  not. 
She  had  not  forgotten,  either,  that  the  same  thing 
had  once  happened  to  her  before,  and  that  Dajrym- 
ple  had  made  it  pass  with  a  spoonful  of  something 
that  had  stung  her  mouth  and  throat,  but  which 
had  afterwards  warmed  her  and  cured  her.  She 


182  CASA    BBACCIO. 

felt  chilly  now,  and  she  wished  that  she  had  some 
of  that  same  stinging,  warming  stuff. 

Something  moved,  somewhere  in  the  house.  The 
girl  listened  intently  for  a  moment.  Probably 
Dalrymple  had  come  back  and  was  moving  about 
in  his  room,  washing  his  hands,  as  he  always  did 
before  supper,  and  taking  off  his  heavy  boots.  His 
room  was  immediately  under  hers,  facing  in  the 
same  direction.  She  went  towards  the  door,  in 
tending  to  go  down  at  once  and  ask  him  for  some 
of  his  medicine.  By  this  time  she  was  persuaded 
that  she  was  not  in  any  danger,  and  her  common- 
sense  told  her  that  she  had  merely  made  herself 
momentarily  ill  with  too  many  grapes,  too  much 
cold  water,  and  too  long  exposure  to  the  sun.  She 
did  not  care  to  let  her  mother  know  anything  about 
it,  for  Sora  Nanna  would  scold  her.  It  would  be 
a  simple  matter  to  catch  the  Scotchman  at  his  door, 
to  get  what  she  wanted  from  him  with  an  easily 
given  promise  of  secjecy,  and  then  to  come  down 
stairs  as  though  nothing  had  happened. 

Annetta  only  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  went 
out  into  the  dark  staircase,  and  crept  down,  as  she 
had  crept  up,  feeling  her  way  at  the  turnings,  by 
the  wall.  She  reached  the  door,  and  was  surprised 
to  see  that  there  was  no  light  within  —  none  of 
that  yellow  light  which  a  lamp  makes,  but  only 
the  grey  glimmer  of  the  moonlight  through  the 
shadow,  creeping  out  by  the  hole  of  the  latch-string. 


CAS  A    BRACCIO.  183 

Her  ears  had  deceived  her,  and  DalryiAple  was  not 
there.  Nevertheless  she  believed  that  he  was. 
The  moonlight  would  be  in  his  room  as  it  was  in 
hers,  just  overhead,  and  he  might  not  have  taken 
the  trouble  to  light  his  lamp.  It  was  very  proba 
ble.  She  tapped  softly,  but  there  was  no  answer. 
She  was  afraid  that  her  mother  might  come  up  the 
stairs  and  hear  her  speaking  through  the  door,  as 
though  by  stealth.  She  put  her  lips  close  to  the 
hole  of  the  latch  and  whistled  softly.  Her  whistle 
was  broken  by  her  own  smile  as  she  fancied  that 
Dalrymple  might  start  at  the  unexpected  sound. 

But  there  was  no  response.  Growing  bolder, 
she  called  him  gently. 

"  Signor !     Are  you  there?  " 

There  was  no  answer.  Just  then,  as  she  stooped, 
the  pain  ran  through  her  once  more.  She  was  so 
sure  that  she  had  heard  him  that  she  was  convinced 
he  must  be  within,  very  probably  in  his  little 
laboratory  beyond  the  bedroom.  The  pain  hurt 
her,  and  he  had  the  medicine.  Very  naturally 
she  pulled  the  string  and  pushed  the  door  open. 

He  was  not  there.  The  moonlight  flooded  every 
thing,  and  the  whitewashed  walls  reflected  it,  so 
that  the  place  was  as  bright  as  day.  The  first 
object  that  met  her  eyes  was  a  small  bottle  stand 
ing  near  the  edge  of  the  table  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  where  Dalrymple  had  carelessly  set  it  down 
in  the  afternoon  when  Sora  ISC  anna  had  called  him 


184  CASA    BBACCIO. 

to  read  her  'letter.  It  was  directly  in  the  line  of 
the  moon's  rays,  and  the  stopper  gleamed  like  a 
little  star. 

Annetta  started  with  joy  as  she  saw  it.  It  was 
the  very  bottle  from  which  he  had  given  her  the 
camphor,  less  than  a  month  ago  —  the  same  in  size, 
in  its  transparent  contents,  in  its  label.  It  might 
have  deceived  a  keener  eye  than  hers. 

The  door  of  the  laboratory  stood  open,  as  he  had 
left  it,  being  at  the  time  preoccupied  and  careless. 
She  only  stopped  a  moment  to  assure  herself  that 
the  bottle  was  the  right  one,  reflecting  that  he  had 
perhaps  felt  ill  and  had  taken  some  of  it  himself. 
She  went  on  and  looked  into  the  little  room. 

"  Signore !  "  she  called  softly.  But  there  was 
no  answer. 

It  was  clear  that  Dalrymple  was  either  still  out, 
or  was  downstairs  at  his  supper,  with  her  mother. 
He  might  be  out,  however.  It  was  quite  possible, 
on  such  a  fine  evening,  for  he  was  irregular  in  his 
hours.  He  would  not  like  it  if  he  came  in  sud 
denly  and  found  her  meddling  with  his  belongings. 
She  crossed  the  room  again  and  softly  shut  the 
door.  At  least,  if  he  came,  she  would  not  be 
found  with  the  bottle  in  her  hand.  She  could 
give  an  excuse. 

It  was  all  so  natural.  It  was  the  same  bottle. 
She  knew  the  right  quantity,  for  she  had  the  peas 
ant's  memory  for  such  detail.  There  was  a  glass 


CA8A   BEACCIO.  185 

and  a  decanter  of  water  on  a  white  plate  on  the 
table.  She  had  no  spoon,  but  that  did  not  matter. 
She  took  out  the  stopper  with  her  strong  fingers, 
though  it  stuck  a  little.  The  pain  ran  through  her 
again  as  she  poured  some  of  the  contents  into  the 
tumbler,  and  it  made  her  hand  shake  so  that  she 
poured  out  a  little  more  than  necessary.  But  it 
did  not  matter.  She  filled  it  up  with  water,  held 
the  glass  up  to  the  moonlight,  and  drank  it  at  a 
draught,  and  set  the  empty  tumbler  upon  the  table 
again. 

Instantly  her  features  changed.  She  felt  as 
though  she  were  struck  through  head  and  heart 
and  body  with  red-hot  steel.  Maria  Addolorata's 
death-mask  rose  before  her  in  the  moonlight. 

"  An  evil  death  on  you  and  all  your  house ! "  she 
tried  to  say. 

But  the  words  were  not  out  of  her  mouth  before 
she  shivered,  caught  herself  by  the  table,  sank 
down,  and  lay  stone  dead  upon  the  brick  floor. 

There  was  no  noise.  Dying,  she  thought  she 
screamed,  but  only  the  faintest  moan  had  passed 
her  lips. 

The  door  was  shut,  and  the  quiet  moonlight 
floated  in  and  silvered  her  dark,  dead  face. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

AT  moonrise  on  that  evening,  Maria  Addolorata 
was  standing  at  the  open  door  of  her  cell,  watch 
ing  the  dark  clouds  in  the  west,  as  they  caught 
the  light  one  by  one,  edge  by  edge.  The  black 
shadow  of  the  convent  covered  all  the  garden  still, 
and  one  passing  could  hardly  have  seen  her  as  she 
stood  there.  Her  veil  was  raised,  and  the  cold 
mountain  breeze  chilled  her  cheeks.  But  she  did 
not  feel  it,  for  she  had  been  long  by  the  abbess's 
bedside,  and  then  long,  again,  in  the  close  choir  of 
the  church,  and  her  head  was  hot  and  aching. 

To  her,  as  she  looked  towards  the  western  moun 
tains  and  watched  the  piling  clouds,  and  felt  the 
cool,  damp  wind,  it  seemed  as  though  there  were 
something  strangely  tragic  in  the  air  that  night. 
The  wind  whistled  now  and  then  through  the 
cracks  of  the  convent  windows  and  over  the  cren- 
ellations  of  the  old  walls,  as  Death's  scythe  might 
whistle  if  he  were  mowing  down  men  with  a  right 
good  will,  heaps  upon  heaps  of  slain.  The  old 
bell  struck  the  hour,  sullenly,  with  a  dead  thud 
in  the  air  after  each  stroke,  as  a  bell  tolls  for 
a  burial.  The  very  clouds  were  black  and  silver 
in  the  sky,  like  a  funeral  pall. 
186 


CASA    BEACCIO.  187 

Maria* Addolorata  leaned  against  the  door-post 
and  looked  out,  her  hand  white  in  the  shadow 
against  the  dark  wood,  her  face  whiter  still.  But 
on  her  hand  there  were  two  marks,  visible  even  in 
the  dimness.  They  would  have  been  red  in  the 
day,  and  the  place  hurt  her  from  time  to  time,  for 
she  had  bitten  it  savagely.  It  was  her  pledge,  and 
the  pain  of  it  reminded  her  of  what  she  had 
promised  to  do. 

She  needed  the  reminder;  for  now  that  he  was 
not  near  her,  the  enormous  crime  stood  out,  black 
and  lofty  as  death  itself.  It  was  different  when 
Dalrymple  was  at  her  side.  His  violent  vitality 
dragged  hers  into  action,  dragged,  drove  it,  and 
goaded  it,  as  unwilling  soldiers  have  been  driven 
into  battle  in  barbarous  armies.  Then  the  fatality 
seemed  irresistible,  then  the  dangers  seemed  small, 
and  the  burning  red  shame  was  pale  and  weak. 
Those  bony  young  hands  of  his  had  strength  in 
them  for  two,  his  gleaming  eyes  burnt  out  the 
resistance  in  hers,  and  lighted  them  with  their 
own  glow.  The  hearty  recklessness  of  his  unbelief 
drove  through  and  through  her  composite  faith, 
and  riddled  it  with  loopholes  for  her  soul's  escape. 
Then  the  reality  of  her  passion  made  her  nobler 
love  mad  to  be  free,  and  to  break  through  the 
solid  walls  in  which  it  had  been  born  and  had 
grown  too  strong.  When  his  IOVB  was  there,  hers 
matched  itself  with  his,  to  smite  fortune  in  the 


188  CA8A    BBACCIO. 

face,  to  dare  and  out-dare  heaven  and  hell  for 
love's  sake,  with  him,  the  bursting  blood  made 
iron  of  her  hand,  tingling  to  buffet  coward  fate's 
pale  mouth.  Then  she  was  strong  above  women; 
then  she  was  brave  as  brave  men;  then,  having 
promised,  to  keep  was  but  the  natural  hold  of 
will,  to  die  was  but  to  dare  one  little  adversary 
more. 

But  she  was  alone  now,  and  thinking,  as  she 
looked  out  into  the  tragic  night,  and  watched  the 
blackness  of  the  monumental  clouds.  She  did  not 
return  to  her  former  self,  as  some  women  do  when 
the  goad  leaves  the  heart  in  peace  for  a  moment. 
She  did  not  say  to  herself  that  she  would  order 
the  convent  gate  to  be  shut  on  Angus  Dalrymple 
forever,  and  herself  go  back  to  the  close  choir,  to 
sit  in  her  seat  amongst  the  rest,  and  sing  holy 
songs  with  the  others,  restfully  unhappy  as  many 
of  them  were.  She  knew  far  too  well  how  strongly 
her  heart  could  beat,  and  how  icy  cold  her  hands 
could  grow  when  love  was  near  her.  Yet  she 
shuddered  with  horror  at  what  she  had  promised 
to  do.  She  would  struggle  to  the  last,  but  she 
must  yield  when  she  heard  his  voice,  and  felt  his 
hand,  at  the  very  last  moment,  when  they  should 
be  at  the  garden  gate,  he  drawing  her  on,  she 
looking  back. 

It  was  perjury  and  sacrilege,  and  earthly  shame, 
and  eternal  damnation.  Nothing  less.  And  the 


CAS  A    BRACC1O.  189 

words  had  full  and  deadly  meaning  for  her.  It 
mattered  little  that  he  should  think  differently, 
being  of  another  faith,  or  rather,  of  no  faith  at  all. 
It  was  all  true  to  her.  It  was  not  risk;  it  was 
certainty.  What  forgiveness  had  earth  or  heaven 
for  a  faithless  nun  ?  He  talked  of  marriage,  and 
he  would  marry  her  according  to  a  rite  that  had 
a  meaning  in  his  eyes.  Heaven  would  not  divorce 
the  sworn  and  plighted  spouse  of  Christ  to  be  the 
earthly  wife  of  Angus  Dalrymple. 

Visions  of  eternal  torment  rose  in  her  mind,  a 
tangible  searing  hell  alive  with  flame  and  devils, 
a  sea  of  liquid  fire,  an  ocean  of  boiling  pitch,  Satan 
commanding  in  the  midst,  and  a  myriad  of  fiends 
working  his  tormenting  will. 

Her  pale  lips  curled  scornfully  in  the  dark. 
Those  were  not  the  terrors  that  frightened  her, 
nor  the  horrors  from  which  she  shrank.  There 
was  a  question  which  was  not  to  be  answered  by 
her  own  soul  in  damnation  or  salvation,  but  by  the 
lips  of  men  hereafter — the  question  of  the  honour 
of  her  name.  The  traditions  of  the  good  old  barons 
were  not  dead  in  that  day,  nor  are  they  all  dead 
yet.  Many  a  Braccio  had  done  evil  deeds  in  his 
or  her  day,  and  one,  at  least,  had  evil  deeds  to  do 
after  Maria  Adclolorata  had  been  laid  in  her  grave. 
But  sin  was  one  thing,  and  dishonour  was  quite 
another,  even  in  the  eyes  of  the  nun  of  Subiaco. 
For  her  sins  she  could  and  must  answer  with  the 


190  CAS  A   BBACCIO. 

weal  or  woe  of  her  own  soul.  But  her  dishonour 
would  be  upon  her  father  and  her  mother  and 
upon  all  her  race.  Nor  was  there  any  dishonour 
deeper,  more  deadly,  or  more  lasting  than  that 
brought  upon  a  stainless  name  by  a  faithless  nun. 
Maria  Braccio  hesitated  at  disgrace,  while  Maria 
Addolorata  smiled  at  perdition.  It  was  not  the 
first  time  that  honour  had  taken  God's  part  against 
the  devil  in  the  history  of  her  family. 

That  was  the  great  obstacle  of  all,  and  she  knew 
it  now.  She  was  able  to  face  all  consequences  but 
that,  terrible  as  they  might  be.  The  barrier  was 
there,  the  traditional  old  belief  in  honour  as  first, 
and  above  every  consideration.  They  had  played 
upon  that  very  belief,  when,  at  the  last,  she  had 
hesitated  to  take  the  veil.  She  had  gone  so  far, 
they  had  told  her,  that  it  would  be  cowardly  and 
dishonourable  to  turn  back  at  the  last  minute. 
The  same  argument  existed  now.  Then,  she  would 
at  least  have  had  human  right  and  ecclesiastical 
law  on  her  side,  if  she  had  refused  to  become  a 
nun.  Now,  all  was  against  her.  Then,  she  would 
have  had  to  face  but  the  condemning  opinion  of  a 
few  who  spoke  of  implied  obligation.  Now,  she 
must  stand  up  and  be  ashamed  before  the  whole 
world.  There  would  be  a  horrible  publicity  about 
it.  She  was  too  high  born  not  to  feel  that  all  the 
world  in  which  she  should  ever  move  was  as 
one  great  family.  Dalrymple  might  promise  her 


CAS  A   BRACCIO.  191 

honour  and  respect,  and  the  affection  of  his  own 
father  and  mother  for  the  love  of  her  parents,  a 
home,  respected  wifehood,  and  all  the  rest.  With 
his  strength,  he  might  impose  her  upon  his  family, 
and  they  might  treat  her  as  he  should  dictate,  for 
he  was  a  strong  and  dominant  man.  But  in  their 
hearts,  Protestants,  English  people,  foreigners  as 
they  were  to  her  race,  even  they  could  not  tell 
themselves  honestly  that  it  was  not  a  shameful 
thing  to  break  such  vows  as  hers,  shameful  and 
nothing  less.  And  if,  for  a  moment,  he  were  not 
there  to  hold  them  in  his  check,  she  should  see  it 
in  their  faces,  and  she  must  hang  her  head,  for  she 
could  have  nothing  to  answer.  For  him,  she  must 
not  only  sacrifice  her  soul,  wrench  out  her  faith, 
break  her  promise  to  God,  and  her  vows  to  the 
Church.  She  must  give  herself  to  public,  earthly 
shame,  for  his  sake. 

It  was  too  much.  She  could  bear  anything  but 
that.  Rather  than  endure  that,  it  was  better  to 
die. 

The  black  clouds  rose  higher  in  the  west,  and 
the  gloomy  air  blew  upon  her  face.  Her  head  was 
no  longer  hot,  for  a  chilly  horror  had  come  upon 
her,  like  the  shadow  of  something  unspeakably 
awful,  close  at  hand.  Suddenly,  she  was  afraid  to 
be  alone.  A  bat,  lured  by  the  second  twilight  of 
the  moon's  rising,  whirled  down  from  above,  with 
softly  flapping  wings,  and  almost  brushed  her  face. 


192  CAS  A    BRACCIO. 

She  drew  back  quickly  into  the  doorway.  It  was 
a  very  tragic  night,  she  thought.  She  shut  the 
door,  and  groped  her  way  out  beyond  her  cell  to 
the  corridor,  dimly  illuminated  by  a  single  light 
hanging  from  the  vault  by  a  running  cord.  She 
entered  the  abbess's  apartment.  One  of  the  sisters 
had  taken  her  place,  but  Maria  Addolorata  sent  her 
away  by  a  gesture,  and  sat  down  by  the  bedside. 

The  old  lady  was  either  asleep,  or  did  not  notice 
her  niece's  coming.  Her  face  was  grey  as  ashes, 
and  upturned  in  the  shadow.  Upon  the  stone 
floor  stood  the  primitive  Italian  night-light,  a  wick 
supported  in  a  triangular  bit  of  tin  by  three  little 
corks  in  oil  floating  on  water  in  a  tumbler.  The 
light  was  very  clear  and  steady,  though  there  was 
little  of  it,  and  to  Maria,  who  had  been  long  in 
comparative  darkness,  the  room  seemed  bright 
enough.  There  was  little  furniture  besides  the 
plain  bed,  a  little  table,  a  couple  of  chairs,  and 
a  tall,  dark  wardrobe.  A  grim  crucifix,  hung  above 
the  abbess's  head,  on  the  white  wall,  the  work  of  an 
age  in  which  horror  was  familiar  to  the  eye,  and 
needed  exaggeration  to  teach  hardened  humanity. 

Maria  was  too  much  occupied  with  her  own 
thoughts  to  notice  the  sick  woman's  condition 
at  once.  Besides,  during  the  last  two  days  there 
had  been  no  return  of  the  syncope,  and  the  abbess 
had  seemed  to  be  improving  steadily.  She  breathed 
rather  heavily  and  seemed  to  be  asleep. 


CAS  A   BRACCIO.  193 

Gradually,  however,  as  the  nun  sat  motionless 
beside  her  and  as  the  storm  of  thought  subsided, 
she  became  aware  that  all  was  not  right.  Her 
aunt's  face  was  unnaturally  grey,  the  breathing 
was  unusually  slow  and  heavy.  When  the  breath 
was  drawn  in,  the  thin  nostrils  flattened  themselves 
strangely  on  each  side,  and  the  features  had  a 
peaked  look.  Maria  rose  and  felt  the  pulse.  It 
was  fluttering,  and  not  always  perceptible. 

At  first  Maria's  attention  to  these  facts  was 
only  mechanical.  Then,  with  a  sudden  sinking 
at  her  own  heart,  she  realized  what  they  might 
mean  —  another  crisis  like  the  one  in  which  the 
abbess  had  so  narrowly  escaped  death.  It  was 
true  that  on  that  occasion  she  had  called  for  help 
more  than  once,  showing  that  she  had  felt  her 
self  to  be  sinking.  At  present  she  seemed  to 
be  unconscious,  which,  if  anything,  was  a  worse 
feature. 

Maria  drew  a  long  breath  and  held  it,  biting  her 
lips,  as  people  do  in  moments  of  suspense,  doubt, 
and  anxiety.  It  was  as  though  fate  had  thrust 
the  great  decision  onward  at  the  last  moment. 
The  life  that  hung  in  the  balance  before  her  eyes 
meant  the  possibility  of  waiting,  with  the  feeble 
consolation  of  being  yet  undecided. 

She  stood  as  still  as  a  statue,  her  face  like  a 
mask,  her  hand  on  the  unconscious  woman's  wrist. 
The  stimulant  which  Dairy m pie  had  shown  her 


VOL.  I.  —  O 


194  CASA  BBACCIO. 

how  to  use  was  at  hand  —  the  glass  with  which 
to  administer  it.  It  would  prolong  life.  It  might 
save  it. 

Should  she  give  it  ?  The  seconds  ran  to  min 
utes,  and  the  dreadful  question  was  unanswered. 
If  the  abbess  died,  as  die  she  almost  certainly 
must  within  half  an  hour,  if  the  medicine  were  not 
given  to  her  —  if  she  died,  Maria  would  call  the 
sisters,  the  portress  would  be  instructed,  and  when 
Dalrymple  came  on  the  morrow,  he  would  be  told 
that  all  was  over,  and  that  he  was  no  longer 
needed.  Nothing  could  be  more  sure.  He  might 
do  his  utmost.  He  could  not  enter  the  convent 
again. 

In  a  quick  vision,  as  she  stood  stone-still,  Maria 
saw  herself  alone  in  the  chapel  by  night,  prostrate, 
repentant,  washing  the  altar  steps  with  tears,  for 
given  of  God,  since  God  could  still  forgive  her, 
honoured  on  earth  as  before,  since  none  but  the 
silent  confessor  could  ever  know  what  she  had 
done,  still  less  what  she  had  meant  to  do.  Her 
sorrow  would  be  real,  overwhelming,  able  to  move 
Heaven  to  mercy,  her  penance  true-hearted  and 
severe  as  she  deserved.  Her  name  would  be  un 
spotted  and  unblemished. 

It  would  be  so  easy,  if  she  had  not  to  see  him 
again.  How  could  she  resist  him,  if  he  could  so 
much  as  touch  her  hand?  But  if  she  were  de 
fended  from  him,  she  could  bury  his  love  and 


CAS  A    BRACCIO.  195 

pray  for  him  in  the  memory  of  the  thing  dead. 
All  that,  if  she  but  let  that  heavy  breathing  go 
on  a  little  longer,  if  she  did  not  raise  her  hand 
and  set  a  glass  to  those  grey,  parted  lips. 

They  were  parted  now.  The  laboured  breath 
was  drawn  through  the  teeth.  The  eyelids  were 
a  little  raised,  and  showed  but  the  white  of  the 
upturned  eyes. 

Maria  stared  fixedly  into  the  pinched  face,  and  a 
new  horror  came  upon  her. 

It  was  murder  she  was  doing.  Nothing  less. 
The  power  to  save  was  there,  and  she  would  not 
use  it.  No  —  it  could  not  be  murder  —  it  was 
not  possible  that  she  could  do  murder. 

Still  with  wide  eyes  she  stared.  Surely  the 
heavy  breath  had  come  more  quickly  a  moment 
ago.  It  seemed  an  age  between  each  rise  and 
fall  of  the  coverlet.  There  was  a  ghastly  whis 
tling  sound  of  it  between  the  teeth. 

It  was  slower  still.  The  eyelids  were  gradually 
opening  —  the  blind  white  was  horrible  to  see. 
Each  breath  was  a  convulsion  that  shook  the 
frail  body. 

It  was  murder.  Her  hand  shot  out  like  light 
ning  and  seized  the  small  bottle.  Let  anything 
come,  —  love,  shame,  heaven,  damnation;  it  should 
not  be  murder. 

She  forced  the  unstoppered  bottle  into  the 
dying  woman's  mouth  with  a  desperate  hand. 


196  CAS  A   BRACCIO. 

The  next  breath  was  drawn  with  a  choking  effort. 
The  whole  body  stirred.  The  thin  hand  appeared, 
grasped  the  coverlet  with  distorting  energy,  and 
then  lay  almost  still,  twitching  convulsively  second 
by  second.  Still  Maria  tried  wildly  to  pour  more 
of  the  stimulant  between  the  set  teeth.  When 
they  parted,  no  breath  came,  and  the  fingers  only 
moved  once  more,  for  the  very  last  time. 

It  was  not  murder,  but  it  was  death.  The 
wasted  old  woman  had  outlived  by  two  or  three 
hours  the  strong,  young  peasant  girl,  and  fate  had 
laid  her  hand  heavily  upon  the  life  of  Maria 
Addolorata. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

WHEN  Dalrymple  came  home  that  evening,  he 
found  his  supper  already  on  the  table  and  half 
cold.  Sora  Nanna  was  busier  than  her  daughter, 
and  less  patient  of  the  Scotchman's  irregularities. 
If  he  could  not  come  home  at  a  reasonable  hour, 
he  must  not  expect  her  to  keep  everything  waiting 
for  him. 

He  sat  down  to  the  table  without  even  going  up. 
stairs  as  usual  to  wash  his  hands,  simply  because 
the  cooked  meat  would  be  cold  and  greasy  if  he  let 
it  stand  five  minutes  longer.  Being  once  seated 
in  his  place,  he  did  not  move  for  a  long  time. 
Sora  oSTanna  came  in  more  than  once.  She  was  very 
much  preoccupied  about  the  load  of  wine  which 
her  husband  had  ordered  to  be  sent,  and  which, 
if  possible,  she  meant  to  send  off  before  morn 
ing,  for  she  did  not  wish  him  to  be  absent  in 
Rome  with  money  in  his  pocket  a  day  longer  than 
necessary. 

Gleomy  and   preoccupied,  without  even  a  book 

before  him,  Dalrymple   sat  with  his  back  to  the 

wall,  drinking  his  wine  in  silence,  and  staring  at 

the  lamp.     Sora  Nanna  asked  him  whether  he  had 

197 


198  CA8A    BEACCIO. 

seen  Annetta.  He  shook  his  head  without  speak 
ing.  The  woman  observed  that  the  girls  were 
quite  capable  of  spending  a  second  night  at  Civi- 
tella  to  prolong  the  festivities.  Dalrymple  nodded, 
not  caring  at  all. 

Annetta  being  absent,  Gigetto  had  not  thought 
it  necessary  to  put  in  an  appearance.  But  Sora 
Xanna  wished  to  see  him  again  about  the  wine. 
With  a  grin,  she  asked  Dalrymple  whether  he 
would  keep  house  if  she  went  out  for  half  an  hour. 
Again  he  nodded  in  silence.  He  heard  her  lock 
from  the  inside  the  door  which  opened  from  the 
staircase  upon  the  street,  for  it  was  already  late. 
Then  she  came  through  the  common  room  again, 
with  her  overskirt  over  her  head,  went  out,  and 
left  the  door  ajar.  Dalrymple  was  alone  in  the 
house,  unaware  that  Annetta  was  lying  dead  on 
the  floor  of  his  room  upstairs. 

Sora  Nanna  had  not  been  gone  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  when  a  boy  came  in  from  the  street.  Dal 
rymple  knew  him,  for  he  was  the  son  of  the  con 
vent  gardener. 

The  lad  said  that  Dalrymple  was  wanted  immedi 
ately,  as  the  abbess  was  very  ill.  That  was  all  he 
knew.  He  was  rather  a  dull  boy,  and  he  repeated 
mechanically  what  he  had  been  told.  The  Scotch 
man  started  and  was  about  to  speak,  when  he 
checked  himself.  He  asked  the  boy  two  or  three 
questions,  in  the  hope  of  getting  more  accurate 


CAS  A    BEACCIO.  199 

information,  but  could  only  elicit  a  repetition  of 
the  message.  He  was  wanted  immediately,  as  the 
abbess  was  very  ill. 

He  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hand  for  a  few 
seconds.  In  a  flash  he  saw  that  if  he  were  ever  to 
carry  off  Maria  Addolorata,  it  must  be  to-night. 
The  chances  were  a  hundred  to  one  that  if  there 
were  another  crisis,  the  abbess  would  be  dead  be 
fore  he  could  reach  the  convent.  Once  dead,  there 
was  no  knowing  what  might  happen  in  the  confu 
sion  that  would  ensue,  and  during  the  elaborate 
funeral  ceremonies.  The  man  had  that  daring 
temper  that  rises  at  obstacles  as  an  eagle  at  a  crag, 
without  the  slightest  hesitation.  When  he  dropped 
his  hand  upon  the  table  he  had  made  up  his  mind. 

It  was  generally  easy  to  get  a  good  mule  at  any 
hour  of  the  night  in  Subiaco.  The  mules  were  in 
their  stables  then.  In  the  daytime  it  would  have 
been  very  doubtful,  when  most  of  them  were  away 
in  the  vineyards,  or  carrying  loads  to  the  neigh 
bouring  towns.  The  convent  gardener,  who  was 
well-to-do  in  the  world,  had  a  very  good  mule,  as 
Dalrymple  knew,  and  its  stable  was  half-way  up 
the  ascent.  The  boy  could  saddle  it  with  the  pack- 
saddle  without  any  difficulty,  and  meet  him  any 
where  he  chose.  Dalrymple's  reputation  was  ex 
cellent  as  a  liberal  foreigner  who  paid  well,  and 
the  gardener  would  not  blame  the  boy  for  saddling 
the  mule  without  leave. 


200  CASA   BEACCIO. 

In  a  few  words  Dalrymple  explained  what  he 
wanted,  and  to  help  the  lad's  understanding  he  gave 
him  some  coppers  which  filled  the  little  fellow 
with  energy  and  delight.  The  boy  was  to  be  at  the 
top  of  the  mule  path  leading  down  from  above  the 
convent  to  the  valley  in  half  an  hour.  Dalrymple 
told  him  that  he  wished  to  go  to  Tivoli,  and  that 
the  boy  could  come  with  him  if  he  chose,  after  the 
visit  to  the  abbess  was  over.  The  boy  ran  away 
to  saddle  the  mule. 

Dalrymple  rose  quickly,  and  shut  the  street  door 
in  order  to  take  the  lamp  with  him  to  his  room, 
and  not  to  leave  the  house  open  with  no  light  in  it. 
The  case  was  urgent.  He  went  upstairs,  carrying 
the  lamp,  and  opened  the  door  of  his  quarters. 
Instantly  he  recognized  the  faint,  sickly  odour  of 
hydrocyanide  of  potassium,  and  remembered  that 
he  had  left  the  bottle  with  the  solution  on  his 
table  that  afternoon  in  his  hurry.  Then  he  looked 
down  and  saw  a  white  face  upon  the  floor,  and 
the  flowered  bodice  and  smart  skirt  of  the  peasant 
girl. 

He  had  solid  nerves,  and  possessed  that  perfect 
indifference  to  death  as  a  phenomenon  which  most 
medical  men  acquire  in  the  dissecting-room.  But 
he  was  shocked  when,  bending  down,  and  setting 
the  lamp  upon  the  floor,  he  saw  in  a  few  seconds 
that  Annetta  had  been  dead  some  time.  He  even 
shook  his  head  a  little,  very  slowly,  which  meant  a 


CASA   BRACCIO.  201 

great  deal  for  his  hard  nature.  Glancing  at  the 
unstoppered  bottle  and  at  the  empty  glass,  side  by 
side  on  the  table,  he  understood  at  once  that  the 
girl,  intentionally  or  by  mistake,  had  swallowed 
enough  of  the  poison  to  kill  half-a-dozen  strong 
men.  He  remembered  instantly  how  he  had  once 
given  her  spirits  of  camphor  when  she  had  felt 
ill,  and  he  understood  all  the  circumstances  in  a 
moment,  almost  as  though  he  had  seen  them. 

Scarcely  thinking  of  what  he  was  doing,  though 
with  an  effort  which  any  one  who  has  attempted 
to  lift  a  dead  body  from  the  ground  will  under 
stand,  he  took  up  the  lifeless  girl,  stiff  and  stark 
as  she  was,  and  laid  her  upon  his  own  bed.  It 
was  a  mere  instinct  of  humanity.  Then  he  went 
back  and  took  the  lamp  and  held  it  near  her 
face,  and  shook  his  head  again,  thoughtfully.  A 
word  of  pity  escaped  his  lips,  spoken  very  low. 

He  set  the  lamp  down  on  the  floor  by  the  bed 
side,  for  there  was  no  small  table  near.  There 
never  is,  in  peasants'  houses.  He  began  to  walk 
up  and  down  the  room,  thinking  over  the  situation, 
which  was  grave  enough. 

Suddenly  he  smelt  the  acrid  odour  of  burning 
cotton.  He  turned  quickly,  and  saw  that  he  had 
placed  the  three-beaked  lamp  so  near  to  the  bed 
that  the  overhanging  coverlet  was  directly  above 
one  of  the  flames,  and  was  already  smouldering. 
He  smothered  it  with  the  stuff  itself  between  his 


202  CAS  A   BE  AC  CIO. 

hands,  brought  the  lamp  into  the  laboratory,  and 
set  it  upon  the  table. 

Then,  realizing  that  his  own  case  was  urgent,  he 
began  to  make  his  preparations.  He  took  a  clean 
bottle  and  poured  thirty-five  drops  of  laudanum 
into  it,  put  in  the  stopper,  and  thrust  it  into  his 
pocket.  Unlocking  another  box,  he  took  out  some 
papers  and  a  canvas  bag  of  gold,  such  as  bankers 
used  to  give  travellers  in  those  times  when  it  was 
necessary  to  take  a  large  supply  of  cash  for  a  jour 
ney.  He  threw  on  his  cloak,  took  his  plaid  over 
one  arm  and  went  back  into  his  bedroom,  carry 
ing  the  lamp  in  the  other  hand.  Then  he  hesi 
tated,  sniffing  the  air  and  the  smell  of  the  burnt 
cotton.  Suddenly  an  idea  seemed  to  cross  his 
mind,  for  he  put  down  the  lamp  and  dropped  his 
plaid  upon  a  chair.  He  stood  still  a  moment 
longer,  looking  at  the  dead  girl  as  she  lay  on  the 
bed,  biting  his  lip  thoughtfully,  and  nodding  his 
head  once  or  twice.  He  made  a  step  towards  the 
bed,  then  hesitated  once  more,  and  then  made  up 
his  mind. 

He  went  back  to  the  bedside,  and  stooping  a  lit 
tle  lifted  the  body  on  his  arms  as  though  judging 
of  its  weight  and  of  his  power  to  carry  it.  His 
first  instinct  had  been  to  lock  the  door  of  the  room 
behind  him,  and  to  go  up  to  the  convent,  leaving 
the  dead  girl  where  she  was,  whether  he  were 
destined  to  come  back  that  night,  or  never.  A 


CAS  A   BEACCIO.  203 

moment's  reflection  had  told  him  that  if  he  did  so 
he  must  certainly  be  accused  of  having  poisoned 
her.  He  meant,  if  it  were  possible,  to  take  Maria 
Addolorata  on  board  of  the  English  man-of-war  at 
Civita  Vecchia  within  twenty-four  hours.  So  far 
as  the  carrying  off  of  a  nun  was  concerned,  he  would 
be  safe  on  the  ship;  but  if  he  were  accused  of 
murder,  no  matter  how  falsely,  the  captain  would 
have  a  right  to  refuse  his  protection,  even  though 
he  was  Dalrymple's  friend.  A  little  chain  of  cir 
cumstances  had  led  him  to  form  a  plan,  in  a  flash, 
which,  if  successfully  carried  out,  would  account 
both  for  the  disappearance  of  Annetta  herself,  and 
of  Maria  Addolorata  as  well. 

His  eyelids  contracted  slightly,  and  his  great 
jaw  set  itself  with  the  determination  to  overcome 
all  obstacles.  In  a  few  seconds  he  had  divested 
the  dead  girl  of  her  heavy  bodice  and  skirt  and 
carpet  apron  and  heavy  shoes.  He  rolled  the 
things  into  a  bundle,  tossed  them  into  the  labora 
tory,  locked  the  door  of  the  latter,  and  stuck  the 
key  into  his  pocket.  He  carefully  stopped  the 
bottle  containing  the  remainder  of  the  prussiate  of 
potassium,  and  took  that  also.  Then  he  rolled  the 
body  up  carefully  in  his  great  plaid,  mummy-like, 
and  tied  the  ends  of  the  shawl  with  shoe-laces 
which  he  had  among  his  things.  He  drew  his  soft 
hat  firmly  down  upon  his  forehead,  and  threw  his 
cloak  over  his  left  shoulder.  He  lifted  the  body 


204  CAS  A   BBACCIO. 

off  the  bed.  It  was  so  stark  that  it  stood  upright 
beside  him.  With  his  right  arm  round  its  waist, 
he  raised  it  so  high  that  he  could  walk  freely,  and 
he  drew  his  wide  cloak  over  it  as  well  as  he  could, 
and  freed  his  left  hand.  He  grasped  the  lamp  as 
he  passed  the  table,  listened  at  the  door,  though 
he  knew  that  the  house  was  locked  below,  and 
he  cautiously  and  with  difficulty  descended  the 
stairs. 

Just  inside  the  street  door  of  the  staircase  there 
was  a  niche,  as  there  is  in  almost  all  old  Italian 
houses.  He  set  the  body  in  it,  and  went  into  the 
common  room  with  the  lamp.  Taking  the  bottle 
with  the  laudanum  in  it  from  his  pocket,  he  filled 
it  more  than  half  full  of  aniseed  cordial,  of  which 
a  decanter  stood  with  other  liquors  upon  a  side 
board,  as  usual  in  such  places.  He  returned  it  to 
his  pocket,  and  listened  again.  Then  he  assured 
himself  that  he  had  all  he  needed  —  the  bottle, 
money,  his  cloak,  and  a  short,  broad  knife  which 
he  always  took  with  him  on  his  walks,  more  for 
the  sake  of  cutting  a  loaf  of  bread  if  he  stopped  for 
refreshment  than  for  any  other  purpose.  His 
passport  he  had  taken  with  his  few  other  valuable 
papers  from  the  box. 

He  left  the  lamp  on  the  table,  and  unlocked  the 
street  door,  though  he  did  not  pull  it  open.  Brave 
as  he  was,  his  heart  beat  fast,  for  it  was  the  first 
decisive  moment.  If  Sora  Nanna  should  come 


CAS  A    BRACCIO.  205 

home  within  the  next  sixty  seconds,  there  would 
be  trouble.  But  there  was  no  sound. 

In  the  dark  he  went  back  to  the  door  of  the 
staircase,  unlocked  it,  and  opened  it  wide,  looking 
out.  The  heavy  clouds  had  so  darkened  the  moon 
light  that  he  could  hardly  see.  But  the  street  was 
quiet,  for  it  was  late,  and  there  were  no  watchmen 
in  Subiaco  at  that  time.  A  moment  later,  the  door 
was  closed  behind  him,  and  he  was  disappearing 
round  the  dark  corner  with  Annetta's  body  in  his 
arms,  all  wrapped  with  himself  in  his  great  cloak. 

It  was  a  long  and  terrible  climb.  A  weaker  man 
would  have  fainted  or  given  it  up  long  before 
Dalrymple  set  his  foot  firmly  upon  the  narrow 
beaten  path  which  ran  along  between  the  garden 
wall  at  the  back  of  the  convent,  and  the  precipitous 
descent  on  his  left.  The  sweat  ran  down  over  his 
hard,  pale  face  in  the  dark,  as  he  shook  off  his 
cloak  and  laid  down  his  ghastly  burden  under  the 
deep  shadow  of  the  low  postern.  He  shook  his  big 
shoulders  and  wiped  his  brow,  and  stretched  out 
his  long  arms,  doubling  them  and  stretching  them 
again,  for  they  were  benumbed  and  asleep  with  the 
protracted  effort.  But  so  far  it  was  done,  and  no 
one  had  met  him.  There  had  been  little  chance  of 
that,  but  he  was  glad,  all  the  same.  And  if,  down 
at  the  house,  any  one  went  to  his  room,  nothing 
would  be  foiind.  He  had  the  key  of  the  little 
laboratory  in  his  pocket.  It  would  be  long  before 


206  CASA    BBACCIO. 

they  broke  down  the  door  and  found  Annetta's 
skirt  and  bodice  and  shoes  wrapped  together  in  a 
corner. 

He  went  on  up  the  ascent  five  minutes  further, 
walking  as  though  on  air  now  that  he  carried  no 
weight  in  his  arms.  At  the  top  of  the  mule  path 
the  lad  was  already  waiting  for  him  with  the  mule. 
He  told  the  little  fellow  that  he  might  have  to  wait 
half  an  hour  longer,  as  he  must  go  into  the  convent 
to  see  the  abbess  before  starting  for  Tivoli.  He 
bid  him  tie  the  mule  by  the  halter  to  the  low  branch 
of  an  overhanging  fig-tree,  and  sit  down  to  wait. 

"It  is  a  cool  night,"  said  Dalryrnple,  though  he 
was  hot  enough  himself.  "Drink  this,  my  boy." 

He  gave  him  the  little  bottle  of  aniseed,  open 
ing  it  as  he  did  so.  The  boy  smelt  it  and  knew 
that  it  was  good,  for  it  is  a  common  drink  in  the 
mountains.  He  drank  half  of  it,  pouring  it  into 
his  mouth  with  a  gurgling  sound. 

"  Drink  it  all, "  said  Dalrymple.  "  1  brought  it 
for  you." 

The  boy  did  not  hesitate,  but  drained  it  to  the 
last  drop,  and  handed  the  bottle  back  without  a 
word.  Dalrymple  made  him  sit  down  near  the 
mule's  head,  well  aside  from  the  path,  in  case  any 
one  should  pass.  He  knew  that  between  the  un 
accustomed  dose  of  spirits  and  the  thirty -five  drops 
of  opium,  the  lad  would  be  sound  asleep  before 
long.  For  the  rest,  there  was  nothing  to  be  done 


CAS  A    SEACCIO.  207 

but  to  trust  to  luck.  He  had  done  the  impossible 
already,  so  far  as  physical  effort  was  concerned, 
but  Fortune  must  not  thwart  him  at  the  end.  If 
she  did,  he  had  in  his  other  pocket  enough  left  of 
what  had  killed  Annetta  to  settle  his  own  affairs 
forever,  and  he  might  need  it.  At  that  moment 
he  was  absolutely  desperate.  It  would  be  ill  for 
any  one  who  crossed  his  path  that  night. 


CHAPTER   XVI. 

DALRYMPLE  wrapped  his  cloak  about  him  once 
more,  as  he  turned  away,  and  retraced  his  steps  by 
the  garden  wall.  He  glanced  at  the  long  dark  thing 
that  lay  in  the  shadow  of  the  postern,  as  he  went  by. 
It  was  not  probable  that  it  would  be  noticed,  even 
if  any  one  should  pass  that  way,  which  was  un 
likely,  between  ten  o'clock  at  night  and  three*in  the 
morning.  He  went  on  without  stopping,  and  in 
three  or  four  minutes  he  had  gone  round  the  con 
vent  to  the  main  entrance,  next  to  the  church.  He 
rang  the  bell.  The  portress  was  expecting  him, 
and  he  was  admitted  without  a  word. 

He  found  Maria  Addolorata  in  the  antechamber 
of  the  abbess's  apartment,  veiled,  and  standing  with 
folded  hands  in  the  middle  of  the  little  hall.  She 
must  have  heard  the  distant  clang  of  the  bell,  for 
she  was  evidently  waiting  for  him. 

"  Am  I  in  time  ?  "  he  asked  in  a  tone  of  anxiety. 

She  shook  her  head  slowly. 

"  Is  she  dead  ?  " 

"  She  was  dead  before  I  sent  for  you,"  answered 
Maria  Addolorata,  in  a  low  and  almost  solemn  tone. 

one  knows  it  yet." 

208 


CAS  A    BEACCIO.  209 

"I  feared  so,"  said  Dalrymple. 

He  made  a  step  towards  the  door  of  the  parlour, 
naturally  expecting  that  Maria  would  speak  with 
him  there,  as  usual.  But  she  stepped  back  and 
placed  herself  in  his  way. 

"  No,"  she  said  briefly. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  he  asked  in  quick  surprise. 

She  raised  her  finger  to  her  veiled  lips,  and 
then  pointed  to  the  other  door,  to  warn  him  that 
the  portress  was  there  and  was  almost  within  hear 
ing.  With  quick  suspicion  he  understood  that  she 
was  keeping  him  in  the  antechamber  to  defend  her 
self,  that  she  had  not  been  able  to  resist  the  desire 
to  see  him  once  more,  and  that  she  intended  this 
to  be  their  last  meeting. 

"  Maria,"  he  began,  but  he  only  pronounced  her 
name,  and  stopped  short,  for  a  great  fear  took  him 
by  the  throat. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  in  her  calm,  low  voice. 
"  I  have  made  up  my  mind.  I  will  not  go.  God 
will  perhaps  forgive  me  what  I  have  done.  I  will 
pray  for  forgiveness.  But  I  will  not  do  more  evil. 
I  will  not  bring  shame  upon  my  father's  house,  even 
for  love  of  you." 

Her  voice  trembled  a  little  at  the  last  words. 
Even  veiled  as  she  was,  the  vital  magnetism  of  the 
man  was  creeping  upon  her  already.  She  had 
resolved  that  she  would  see  him  once  more,  that 
she  would  tell  him  the  plain  truth  that  was  right, 

VOL.    I.  P 


210  CASA    BRACCIO. 

that  she  would  bid  him  farewell,  and  promise  to 
pray  for  him,  as  she  must  pray  for  herself.  But 
she  had  sworn  to  herself  that  she  would  not  speak 
of  love.  Yet  with  the  first  words  she  spoke,  the 
word  and  the  vibration  of  love  had  come  too.  Her 
hands  disappeared  in  her  sleeves,  and  her  nails 
pressed  the  flesh  in  the  determination  to  be  strong. 
She  little  guessed  the  tremendous  argument  he  had 
in  store. 

"  It  is  hard  to  speak  here,"  he  said.  "  Let  us  go 
into  the  parlour." 

She  shook  her  head,  and  again  moved  backwards 
a  step,  so  that  her  shoulders  were  almost  against 
the  door. 

"  You  must  say  what  you  have  to  say  here,"  she 
answered  after  a  moment's  pause,  and  she  felt 
strong  again.  "  For  my  part,  I  have  spoken.  May 
God  forget  me  in  my  utmost  need  if  I  go  with 
you." 

Dalrymple  seemed  little  moved  by  the  solemn 
invocation.  It  meant  little  enough  to  him. 

"I  must  tell  you  a  short  story,"  he  replied 
quietly.  "Unless  I  tell  you,  you  cannot  under 
stand.  I  have  set  my  life  upon  your  love,  and  I 
have  gone  so  far  that  I  cannot  save  my  life  except 
by  you  —  my  life  and  my  honour.  Will  you  listen 
to  me  ?  " 

She  nodded,  and  he  heard  her  draw  a  quick 
breath.  Then  he  began  his  story,  putting  it  to- 


CASA   BBACCIO.  211 

gether  clearly,  from  the  facts  he  knew,  in  very  few 
words.  He  told  her  how  Annetta  must  have  mis 
taken  the  bottle  on  his  table  for  camphor,  and  how 
he  had  found  her  dead.  Nothing  would  save  him 
from  the  accusation  of  having  murdered  the  girl 
but  the  absolute  disappearance  of  her  body.  Maria 
shuddered  and  turned  her  head  quickly  when  he 
told  her  that  the  body  was  lying  under  the  pos 
tern  arch  behind  the  garden  wall.  He  told  her, 
too,  that  the  boy  was  by  this  time  asleep  be 
side  the  mule  on  the  path  beyond.  Then  he  told 
her  of  his  plan,  which  was  short,  desperate,  and 
masterly. 

"  You  must  tell  no  one  that  the  abbess  is  dead," 
he  said.  "  Go  out  through  your  cell  into  the  gar 
den,  as  soon  as  I  am  gone,  and  when  I  tap  at  the 
postern  open  the  door.  Leave  a  lamp  in  your  cell. 
I  will  do  the  rest." 

"  What  will  you  do  ?  "  asked  Maria,  in  a  low  and 
wondering  tone. 

"You  must  lock  the  door  of  your  cell  on  the 
inside  and  leave  the  lamp  there,"  said  Dalrymple. 
"  You  will  wait  for  me  in  the  garden  by  the  gate. 
I  will  carry  the  poor  girl's  body  in  and  lay  it  in 
your  bed.  Then  I  will  set  fire  to  the  bed  itself. 
Of  course  there  is  an  under-mattress  of  maize  leaves 
—  there  always  is.  I  will  leave  the  lamp  standing 
on  the  floor  by  the  bedside.  I  will  shut  the  door 
and  come  out  to  you,  and  I  can  manage  to  slip  the 


212  CAS  A    BEACCIO. 

bolt  of  the  garden  gate  from  the  outside  by  prop 
ping  up  the  spring  from  within.  You  shall  see." 

"  It  is  horrible !  "  gasped  Maria.  "  And  I  do  not 
see  —  " 

"It  is  simple,  and  nothing  else  can  save  my  life. 
Your  cell  is  of  course  a  mere  stone  vault,  and  the 
fire  cannot  spread.  The  sisters  are  asleep,  except 
the  portress,  who  will  be  far  away.  Long  before 
they  break  down  your  door,  the  body  will  be 
charred  by  the  fire  beyond  all  recognition.  They 
will  see  the  lamp  standing  close  by,  and  will  sup 
pose  that  you  lay  down  to  rest,  leaving  the  lamp 
close  to  you  —  too  close;  that  the  abbess  died 
while  you  were  asleep,  and  that  you  had  caught 
fire  before  you  waked;  that  you  were  burned  to 
death,  in  fact.  The  body  will  be  buried  as  yours, 
and  you  will  be  legally  dead.  Consequently  there 
will  not  be  the  slightest  suspicion  upon  your  good 
name.  As  for  me,  it  will  be  supposed  that  I  have 
procured  other  clothes  for  Annetta,  thrown  hers 
into  the  laboratory  and  carried  her  off.  In  due 
time  I  will  send  her  father  a  large  sum  of  money 
without  comment.  If  you  refuse,  I  must  either  be 
arrested,  convicted,  and  sentenced  to  death  for  the 
murder  of  a  girl  who  killed  herself  without  my 
knowledge,  or,  as  is  probable,  I  shall  go  out  now, 
sit  down  in  a  quiet  place,  and  be  found  dead  in  the 
morning.  It  is  certain  death  to  me  in  either  case. 
It  would  be  absolutely  impossible  for  me  to  get  rid 


CASA    BRACCIG.  213 

of  the  dead  body  without  arousing  suspicion.  If 
it  is  wrong  to  save  oneself  by  burning  a  dead  body, 
it  is  not  a  great  wrong,  and  I  take  it  upon  myself. 
It  is  the  only  wrong  in  the  matter,  unless  it  is 
wrong  to  love  you  and  to  be  willing  to  die  for  you. 
Do  you  understand  me  ?  " 

Leaning  back  against  the  door  of  the  parlour, 
Maria  Addolorata  had  almost  unconsciously  lifted 
her  veil  and  was  gazing  into  his  eyes.  The  plan 
was  horrible,  but  she  could  not  help  admiring  the 
man's  strength  and  daring.  In  his  voice,  even 
when  he  told  her  that  he  loved  her,  there  was  that 
quiet  courage  which  imposes  itself  upon  men  and 
women  alike.  The  whole  situation  was  as  clear  as 
day  to  her  in  a  moment,  for  all  his  calculations 
were  absolutely  correct,  —  the  fire-proof  vault  of 
the  cell,  the  certainty  that  the  body  would  be  taken 
for  hers,  above  all,  the  assurance  of  her  own  sup 
posed  death,  with  the  utter  freedom  from  suspicion 
which  it  would  mean  for  her  ever  afterwards.  Was 
she  not  to  be  buried  with  Christian  burial,  mourned 
as  dead,  and  freed  in  one  hour  from  all  the  conse 
quences  of  her  life  ?  It  was  masterly,  though 
there  was  a  horror  in  it. 

She  loved  him  more  than  her  own  soul.  It  was 
the  fear  of  bringing  shame  upon  her  father  and 
mother  that  had  held  her,  far  more  than  any  spirit 
ual  dread.  It  was  not  strange  that  she  should 
waver  a^ain  when  he  had  unfolded  his  scheme. 


214  CAS  A   BEACCIO. 

She  turned,  opened  the  door,  and  led  him  into 
the  parlour,  where  the  silver  lamp  was  burning 
brightly. 

"  You  must  tell  it  all  again,"  she  said,  still  stand 
ing.  "  I  must  be  quite  sure  that  I  understand." 

He  knew  well  enough  that  she  had  finally  yielded, 
since  she  went  so  far.  In  his  mind  he  quickly  ran 
over  the  details  of  the  plan  once  more,  and  men 
tally  settled  what  still  remained  to  be  decided. 
But  since  she  wished  it,  he  went  over  all  he  had 
said  already.  Being  able  to  speak  in  his  natural 
voice  without  fear  of  being  overheard  by  the  por 
tress,  and  feeling  sure  of  the  result,  he  spoke  far 
more  easily  and  more  eloquently.  Before  he  had 
finished  he  was  holding  her  hand  in  his,  and  she 
was  gazing  intently  into  his  eyes. 

"  It  is  life  or  death  for  me,"  he  said,  when  he  had 
told  her  everything.  "  Which  shall  it  be  ?  " 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  her  strong 
mouth  smiled  strangely. 

"It  shall  be  life  for  you,  if  I  lose  my  soul  for 
it,"  she  said. 

She  felt  the  quick  thrill  and  pressure  of  his 
hand,  and  all  the  man's  tremendous  energy  was 
alive  again. 

"Then  let  us  do  it  quickly,"  he  answered.     "I 
will  go  out  with  the  portress.     Go  to  your  cell  be-, 
fore  we  reach  the  end  of  the  corridor,  and  shut  the 
door  with  some  noise.     She  will  remember  it  after- 


CASA    BBACCIO.  215 

wards.  Wait  at  the  garden  gate  till  I  tap  softly, 
and  leave  the  rest  to  me.  There  is  no  danger. 
Do  not  be  afraid." 

"  Afraid ! "  she  exclaimed  proudly.  "  How  little 
you  know  me !  It  never  was  fear  that  held  me. 
Besides  —  with  you !  " 

The  two  last  words  told  him  more  than  all  she 
had  ever  said  before,  and  for  the  first  time  he 
wholly  trusted  her.  Besides,  it  was  to  be  only  for 
a  few  minutes,  while  he  went  out  by  the  front  gate 
and  walked  round  to  the  back  of  the  convent. 
The  plan  was  so  well  conceived  that  it  could  not 
fail  when  put  into  execution. 

They  shook  hands,  as  two  people  who  have  agreed 
to  do  a  desperate  deed,  each  for  the  other's  sake. 
Then  as  their  grasp  loosened,  Dalrymple  turned 
towards  the  door,  but  turned  again  almost  instantly 
and  took  her  in  his  arms,  and  kissed  her  as  men 
kiss  women  they  love  when  their  lives  are  in  the 
balance.  Then  he  went  out,  passed  throiigh  the 
antechamber,  and  found  the  portress  waiting  for 
him  as  usual.  She  took  up  her  little  lamp  and 
led  the  way  in  silence.  A  moment  later  he  heard 
Maria  come  out  and  enter  her  cell,  closing  the 
door  loudly  behind  her. 

"  Her  most  reverend  excellency  is  in  no  danger 
now,"  he  said  to  the  portress,  with  Scotch  veracity. 

"Sister  Maria  Addolorata  may  then  rest  a  little," 
answered  the  lay  sister,  who  rarely  spoke. 


216  CAS  A   BBACCIO. 

"  Precisely  so,"  said  Dalrymple,  drily. 

Five  minutes  later  he  was  at  the  garden  gate, 
tapping  softly.  Immediately  the  door  yielded  to 
his  gentle  pressure,  for  Maria  had  already  un 
fastened  the  lock  within. 

"  Stand  aside  a  little,"  said  Dalrymple,  in  a  whis 
per.  "  You  need  not  see  —  it  is  not  a  pretty  sight. 
Keep  the  door  shut  till  I  come  back.  Where  is 
your  cell  ?  " 

She  pointed  to  a  door  that  was  open  above  the 
level  of  the  garden.  A  little  light  came  out. 
With  womanly  caution  she  had  set  the  lamp  in  the 
corner  behind  the  door  when  she  had  opened  it,  so 
as  to  show  as  little  as  possible  from  without. 

She  turned  her  head  away  as  he  passed  her  with 
his  heavy  burden,  treading  softly  upon  the  hard, 
dry  ground.  But  he  was  not  half  across  the  garden 
before  she  looked  after  him.  She  could  not  help 
it.  The  dark  thing  he  carried  in  his  arms  at 
tracted  her,  and  a  shudder  ran  through  her.  She 
closed  the  gate,  and  stood  with  her  hand  on  the  lock. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  he  was  gone  an  intermi 
nable  time.  Though  the  moon  was  now  high,  the 
clouds  were  so  black  that  the  garden  was  almost 
quite  dark.  Suddenly  she  heard  his  step,  and  he 
was  nearer  than  she  thought. 

"It  is  burning  well,"  he  said  with  grim  brevity. 

He  stooped  and  looked  closely  in  the  dimness  at 
the  old-fashioned  lock.  It  was  made  as  he  sup- 


CASA   BBACCIO.  217 

posed  and  could  be  easily  slipped  from  without. 
He  found  a  pebble  under  his  foot,  raised  the 
spring,  and  placed  the  small  stone  under  it,  after 
examining  the  position  of  the  cracks  in  the  wood, 
which  were  many. 

"  There  is  plenty  of  time,  now,"  he  said,  and  he 
gently  pushed  her  out  upon  the  narrow  walk,  draw 
ing  the  door  after  him. 

With  his  big  knife,  working  through  the  widest 
crack  he  teazed  the  bolt  into  the  socket.  Then 
with  his  shoulder  he  softly  shook  the  whole  door. 
He  heard  the  spring  fall  into  its  place,  as  the  pebble 
dropped  upon  the  dry  ground. 

"No  human  being  can  suspect  that  the  door  has 
been  opened,"  he  said. 

He  wrapped  her  in  his  long  cloak,  standing  be 
side  her  under  the  wall.  Very  gently  he  pushed 
the  veil  and  bands  away  from  her  golden  hair. 
She  helped  him,  and  he  kissed  the  soft  locks. 
Then  about  her  head  he  laid  his  plaid  in  folds  and 
drew  it  forward  over  her  shoulders.  She  let  him 
do  it,  not  realizing  what  service  the  shawl  had  but 
lately  done. 

They  walked  forward.  The  boy  was  fast  asleep 
and  did  not  move.  The  mule  stamped  a  little  as 
they  came  up.  Dalrymple  lifted  Maria  upon  the 
pack-saddle,  sideways,  and  stretched  the  packing- 
cords  behind  her  back. 

"  Hold  on,"  he  said.     "  I  will  lead  the  mule." 


CASA    BRACCIO.  219 

home-coming  when  he  found  that  his  daughter  was 
gone,  and  unconsciously  he  repeated  the  very  words 
she  had  last  spoken  when  she  was  dying  in  Dalrym- 
ple's  room  all  alone. 

"  An  evil  death  on  you  and  all  your  house  ! "  he 
said,  shaking  his  fist  at  the  door  of  the  room. 

And  Stefanone  swore  within  himself  solemnly 
that  the  Englishman  should  pay  the  price.  And  he 
and  his  paid  it  in  full,  and  more  also,  after  years 
had  passed,  even  to  generations  then  unborn. 

This  is  the  first  act,  as  it  were,  of  all  the  story, 
and  between  this  one  and  the  beginning  of  the  next 
a  few  years  must  pass  quickly,  if  not  altogether  in 
silence. 


PART  II. 

GLORIA  DALRYMPLE. 


CHAPTEE  XVII. 

IN  the  year  1861  Donna  Francesca  Campodonico 
was  already  a  widow.  Her  husband,  Don  Girolamo 
Campodonico,  had  died  within  two  years  of  their 
marriage,  which  had  been  one  of  interest  and  con 
venience  so  far  as  he  had  been  concerned,  for  Donna 
Francesca  was  rich,  whereas  he  had  been  but  a 
younger  son  and  poor.  His  elder  brother  was  the 
Duca  di  Norba,  the  father  of  another  Girolamo, 
who  succeeded  him  many  years  later,  of  Gianforte 
Campodonico,  and  of  the  beautiful  Bianca,  in  whose 
short,  sad  life  Pietro  Ghisleri  afterwards  held  so 
large  a  part.  But  of  these  latter  persons,  some 
were  then  not  yet  born,  and  others  were  in  their 
infancy,  so  that  they  play  no  part  in  this  portion  of 
the  present  history. 

Donna  Francesca  was  of  the  great  Braccio  family, 
the  last  of  a  collateral  branch.  She  had  inherited 
a  very  considerable  estate,  which,  if  she  had  no 
descendants,  was  to  revert  to  the  Princes  of  Ge- 
rano.  She  had  married  Don  Girolamo  in  obedi 
ence  to  her  guardians'  advice,  but  not  at  all  against 
her  will,  and  she  had  become  deeply  attached  to 
him  during  the  short  two  years  of  their  married 
223 


224  CASA   BRACCIO. 

life.  He  had  never  been  strong,  since  his  child 
hood,  his  constitution  having  been  permanently 
injured  by  a  violent  attack  of  malarious  fever 
when  he  had  been  a  mere  boy.  A  second  fever, 
even  more  severe  than  the  first,  caught  on  a  shoot 
ing  expedition  near  Fiunricino,  had  killed  him,  and 
Donna  Francesca  was  left  a  childless  widow,  in  full 
possession  of  her  own  fortune  and  of  a  little  more 
in  the  shape  of  a  small  jointure.  It  was  thought 
that  she  would  marry  again  before  very  long,  but 
it  was  too  soon  to  expect  this  as  yet. 

Among  her  possessions  as  the  last  of  her  branch 
of  the  Braccio  family,  of  which  the  main  line,  how 
ever,  was  sufficiently  well  represented,  was  the 
small  but  beautiful  palace  in  which  she  now  lived 
alone.  It  was  situated  between  the  Capitoline  Hill 
and  the  Tiber,  surrounded  on  three  sides  by  dark 
and  narrow  streets,  but  facing  a  small  square  in 
which  there  was  an  ancient  church.  When  it  is 
said  that  the  palace  was  a  small  one,  its  dimensions 
are  compared  with  the  great  Roman  palaces,  more 
than  one  of  which  could  easily  lodge  a  thousand 
persons.  It  was  built  on  the  same  general  plan  as 
most  of  them,  with  a  ground  floor  having  heavily 
barred  windows ;  a  state  apartment  in  the  first 
story,  with  three  stone  balconies  on  the  front;  a 
very  low  second  story  above  that,  but  not  coex 
tensive  with  it,  because  two  of  the  great  state 
rooms  were  higher  than  the  rest  and  had  clere- 


CAS  A    BEACCIO.  225 

story  windows ;  and  last  of  all,  a  third  story  con 
sisting  of  much  higher  rooms  than  the  second,  and 
having  a  spacious  attic  under  the  sloping  roof,  which 
was,  of  course,  covered  with  red  tiles  in  the  old 
fashion.  The  palace,  at  that  time  known  as  the 
Palazzo,  or  <  Palazzetto,'  Borgia,  was  externally  a 
very  good  specimen  of  Eenascence  architecture  of 
the  period  when  the  florid,  '  barocco '  style  had  not 
yet  got  the  upper  hand  in  Eome.  The  great  arched 
entrance  for  carriages  was  well  proportioned,  the 
stone  carvings  were  severe  rather  than  graceful, 
the  cornices  had  great  nobility  both  of  proportion 
and  design.  The  lower  story  was  built  of  rough- 
faced  blocks  of  travertine  stone,  above  which  the 
masonry  was  smooth.  The  whole  palace  was  of 
that  warm,  time-toned  colour,  which  travertine 
takes  with  age,  and  which  is,  therefore,  peculiar 
to  old  Koman  buildings. 

Within,  though  it  could  not  be  said  that  any  part 
had  exactly  fallen  to  decay,  th^re  were  many  rooms 
which  had  been  long  disused,  in  which  the  old  fres 
coes  and  architectural  designs  in  grey  and  white, 
and  bits  of  bold  perspective  painted  in  the  vaults 
and  embrasures,  were  almost  obliterated  by  time, 
and  in  which  such  furniture  as  there  was  could  not 
survive  much  longer.  About  on?-half  of  the  state 
apartment,  comprising,  perhaps,  fifte3n  or  twenty 
rooms,  large  and  small,  had  been  occupied  by  Donna 
Francesca  and  her  husband,  and  she  now  lived  in 

TOL.    I.  Q 


226  CA8A    BRACCIO. 

them  alone.  In  that  part  of  the  palace  there  was 
a  sort  of  quiet  and  stately  luxury,  the  result  of  her 
own  taste,  which  was  strongly  opposed  to  the  gaudy 
fashions  then  introduced  from  Paris  at  the  height 
of  the  Second  Empire's  importance.  Girolamo 
Campodonico  had  been  aware  that  his  young  wife's 
judgment  was  far  better  than  his  own  in  artistic 
matters,  and  had  left  all  such  questions  entirely 
to  her. 

She  had  taken  much  pleasure  in  unearthing  from 
attics  and  disused  rooms  all  such  objects  as  pos 
sessed  any  intrinsic  artistic  value,  such  as  old  carved 
furniture,  tapestries,  and  the  like.  Whatever  she 
found  worth  keeping  she  had  caused  to  be  restored 
just  so  far  as  to  be  useful,  and  she  had  known  how  to 
supply  the  deficiencies  with  modern  material  in  such 
a  way  as  not  to  destroy  the  harmony  of  the  whole. 

It  should  be  sufficiently  clear  from  these  facts 
that  Donna  Francesca  Campodonico  was  a  woman 
of  taste  and  culture,  in  the  modern  sense.  Indeed, 
the  satisfaction  of  her  tastes  occupied  a  much  more 
important  place  in  her  existence  than  her  social 

obligations,  and  had  a  far  greater  influence  upon 

- 
her  subsequent  life.     Her  favourite  scheme  was  to 

make  her  palace  at  all  points  as  complete  within 
as  its  architect  had  made  it  outside,  and  she  had  it 
in  her  power  to  succeed  in  doing  so.  She  was  not, 
as  some  might  think,  a  great  exception  in  those 
days.  Within  the  narrow  limits  of  a  certain  class, 


CAS  A    BBACCIO.  227 

in  which  the  hereditary  possession  of  masterpieces 
has  established  artistic  intelligence  as  a  stamp  of 
caste,  no  people,  until  recently,  have  had  a  better 
taste  than  the  Italians ;  as  no  people,  beyond  these 
limits,  have  ever  had  a  worse.  There  was  nothing 
very  unusual  in  Donna  Francesca's  views,  except  her 
constant  and  industrious  energy  in  carrying  them 
out.  Even  this  might  be  attributed  to  the  fact 
that  she  had  inherited  a  beautiful  but  dilapidated 
palace,  which  she  was  desirous  of  improving  until, 
on  a  small  scale,  it  should  be  like  the  houses  of 
the  great  old  families,  such  as  the  Saracinesca, 
the  Savelli,  the  Frangipani,  and  her  own  near 
relatives,  the  Princes  of  Gerano. 

She  had  an  invaluable  ally  in  her  artistic  enter 
prises  in  the  person  of  an  artist,  who,  in  a  sort  of 
way,  was  considered  as  belonging  to  Casa  Braccio, 
though  his  extraordinary  talent  had  raised  him 
far  above  the  position  of  a  dependent  of  the 
family,  in  which  he  had  been  born  as  the  son  of 
the  steward  of  the  ancient  castle  and  estate  of 
Gerano.  As  constantly  happened  in  those  days, 
the  clever  boy  had  been  noticed  by  the  Prince, 
—  or,  perhaps,  thrust  into  notice  by  his  father, 
who  was  reasonably  proud  of  him.  The  lad  had 
been  taken  out  of  his  surroundings  and  thoroughly 
educated  for  the  priesthood  in  Eome,  but  by  the 
time  he  had  attained  to  the  age  necessary  for  ordi 
nation,  his  artistic  gifts  had  developed  to  such  an 


228  CASA   BBACCIO. 

extent  that  in  spite  of  his  father's  disappointment, 
even  the  old  Prince  —  the  brother  of  Sister  Maria 
Addolorata  —  advised  Angelo  Reanda  to  give  up 
the  Church,  and  to  devote  himself  altogether  to 
painting. 

Young  Reanda  had  been  glad  enough  of  the 
change  in  his  prospects.  Many  eminent  Italians 
have  begun  life  in  a  similar  way.  Cardinal  Anto- 
nelli  was  not  the  only  one,  for  there  have  been 
Italian  prime  ministers  as  well  as  dignitaries  of 
the  Church,  whose  origin  was  as  humble  and  who 
owed  their  subsequent  distinction  to  the  kindly 
interest  bestowed  on  them  by  nobles  on  whose 
estates  their  parents  were  mere  peasants,  very  far 
inferior  in  station  to  Angelo  Reanda's  father,  a 
man  of  a  certain  education,  occupying  a  position 
of  trust  and  importance. 

Nor  was  Reanda's  priestly  education  anything 
but  an  advantage  to  him,  so  far  as  his  career  was 
concerned,  however  much  it  had  raised  him  above 
the  class  in  which  he  had  been  born.  So  far  as 
latinity  and  rhetoric  were  to  be  counted  he  was 
better  educated  than  his  father's  master ;  for  with 
the  same  advantages  he  had  greater  talents,  greater 
origkiaiity,  and  greater  industry.  As  an  artist,  his 
mental  culture  made  him  the  intellectual  superior 
of  most  of  his  contemporaries.  As  a  man,  ten 
years  of  close  association  with  the  sons  of  gentle 
men  had  easily  enough  made  a  gentleman  of  one 


CAS  A    BRACCIO.  229 

whose  instincts  were  naturally  as    refined   as   his 
character  was  sensitive  and  upright. 

Donna  Francesca,  as  the  last  of  her  branch  of 
the  family  and  an  orphan  at  an  early  age,  had  of 
course  been  brought  up  in  the  house  of  her  rela 
tives  of  Gerano,  and  from  her  childhood  had  known 
Keanda's  father,  and  Angelo  himself,  who  was  fully 
ten  years  older  than  she.  Some  of  his  first  paint 
ings  had  been  done  in  the  great  Braccio  palace,  and 
many  a  time,  as  a  mere  girl,  she  had  watched  him 
at  his  work,  perched  upon  a  scaffolding,  as  he 
decorated  the  vault  of  the  main  hall.  She  could 
not  remember  the  time  when  she  had  not  heard 
him  spoken  of  as  a  young  genius,  and  she  could 
distinctly  recall  the  discussion  which  had  taken 
place  when  his  fate  had  been  decided  for  him,  and 
when  he  had  been  at  last  told  that  he  might  become 
an  artist  if  he  chose.  At  that  time  she  had  looked 
upon  him  with  a  sort  of  wondering  admiration  in 
which  there  was  much  real  friendly  feeling,  and  as 
she  grew  up  and  saw  what  he  could  do,  and  learned 
to  appreciate  it,  she  silently  determined  that  he 
should  one  day  help  her  to  restore  the  dilapidated 
Palazzetto  Borgia,  where  her  father  and  mother 
had  died  in  her  infancy,  and  which  she  loved  with 
that  sort  of  tender  attachment  which  children 
brought  up  by  distant  relations  often  feel  for  what 
ever  has  belonged  to  their  own  dimly  remembered 
parents. 


230  CAS  A    BBACCIO. 

There  was  a  natural  intimacy  between  the  young 
girl  and  the  artist.  Long  ago  she  had  played  at 
ball  with  him  in  the  great  courtyard  of  the  Gerano 
castle,  when  he  had  been  at  home  for  his  holidays, 
wearing  a  black  cassock  and  a  three-cornered  hat, 
like  a  young  priest.  Then,  all  at  once,  instead  of 
a  priest  he  had  been  a  painter,  dressed  like  other 
men  and  working  in  the  house  in  which  she  lived. 
She  had  played  with  his  colours,  had  scrawled 
with  his  charcoals  upon  the  white  plastered  walls, 
had  asked  him  questions,  and  had  talked  with  him 
about  the  famous  pictures  in  the  Braccio  gallery. 
And  all  this  had  happened  not  once,  but  many 
times  in  the  course  of  years.  Then  she  had  un 
folded  to  him  her  schemes  about  her  own  little 
palace,  and  he  had  promised  to  help  her,  by  and 
bye,  half  jesting,  half  in  earnest.  She  would  give 
him  rooms  in  the  upper  story  to  live  in,  she  said, 
disposing  of  everything  beforehand.  He  should 
be  close  to  his  work,  and  have  it  under  his  hand 
always  until  it  was  finished.  And  when  there  was 
no  more  to  do,  he  might  still  live  there  and  have 
his  studio  at  the  top  of  the  old  house,  with  an 
entrance  of  his  own,  leading  by  a  narrow  staircase 
to  on.e  of  the  dark  streets  at  the  back.  She  had 
noticed  all  sorts  of  peculiarities  of  the  building  in 
her  occasional  visits  to  it  with  the  governess,  —  as, 
for  instance,  that  there  was  a  convenient  interior 
staircase  leading  from  the  great  hall  to  the  upper 


CAS  A    BBACCIO.  231 

story,  by  a  door  once  painted  like  the  wall,  and 
hard  to  find,  but  now  hanging  on  its  hinges  and 
hideously  apparent.  The  great  hall  must  all  be 
painted  again,  and  Angelo  could  live  overhead  and 
come  down  to  his  work  by  those  steps.  With 
childish  pleasure  she  praised  her  own  ingenuity  in 
so  arranging  matters  beforehand.  Angelo  was  to 
help  her  in  all  she  did,  until  the  Palazzetto  Borgia 
should  be  as  beautiful  as  the  Palazzo  Braccio 
itself,  though  of  course  it  was  much  smaller. 
Then  she  scrawled  on  the  walls  again,  trying  to 
explain  to  him,  in  childishly  futile,  sketches,  her 
ideas  of  decoration,  and  he  would  come  down  from 
his  scaffold  and  do  his  best  with  a  few  broad  lines 
to  show  her  what  she  had  really  imagined,  till  she 
clapped  her  small,  dusty  hands  with  delight  and 
was  ultimately  carried  off  by  her  governess  to  be 
made  presentable  for  her  daily  drive  in  the  Villa 
Borghese  with  the  Princess  of  Gerano. 

As  a  girl  Francesca  had  the  rare  gift  of  seeing 
clearly  in  her  mind  what  she  wanted,  and  at  last 
she  had  found  herself  possessed  of  the  power  to 
carry  out  her  intentions.  As  a  matter  of  course 
she  had  taken  Reanda  into  her  confidence  as  her 
chief  helper,  and  the  intimacy  which  dated  from 
her  childhood  had  continued  on  very  much  the  same 
footing.  His  talent  had  grown  and  been  consoli 
dated  by  ten  years  of  good  work,  and  she,  as  a 
young  married  woman,  had  understood  what  she 


232  CASA    BRACCIO. 

had  meant  when  she  had  been  a  child.  Reanda  was 
now  admittedly,  in  his  department,  the  first  painter 
in  Rome,  and  that  was  fame  in  those  days.  His 
high  education  and  general  knowledge  of  all  artistic 
matters  made  him  an  interesting  companion  in 
such  work  as  Francesca  had  undertaken,  and  he 
had,  moreover,  a  personal  charm  of  manner  and 
voice  which  had  always  attracted  her. 

No  one,  perhaps,  would  have  called  him  a  hand 
some  man,  and  at  this  time  he  was  no  longer  in 
his  first  youth.  He  was  tall,  thin,  and  very  dark, 
though  his  black  beard  had  touches  of  a  deep  gold- 
brown  colour  in  it,  which  contrasted  a  little  with 
Ms  dusky  complexion.  He  had  a  sad  face,  with 
deep,  lustreless,  thoughtful  eyes,  which  seemed  to 
peer  inward  rather  than  outward.  In  the  olive 
skin  there  were  heavy  brown  shadows,  and  the 
bony  prominence  of  the  brow  left  hollows  at  the 
temples,  from  which  the  fine  black  hair  grew  with 
a  backward  turn  which  gave  something  unusual 
to  his  expression.  The  aquiline  nose  which  charac 
terizes  so  many  Roman  faces,  was  thin  and  delicate, 
with  sensitive  nostrils  that  often  moved  when  he 
was  speaking.  The  eyebrows  were  irregular  and 
thick,  extending  in  a  dark  down  beyond  the  lower 
angles  of  the  forehead,  and  almost  meeting  between 
the  eyes ;  but  the  somewhat  gloomy  expression 
which  this  gave  him  was  modified  by  a  certain 
sensitive  grace  of  the  mouth,  little  hidden  by  the 


CAS  A    BRACCIO.  233 

thin  black  moustache  or  by  the  beard,  which  did 
not  grow  up  to  the  lower  lip,  though  it  was  thick 
and  silky  from  the  chin  downwards. 

It  was  a  thoughtful  face,  but  there  was  creative 
power  in  the  high  forehead,  as  there  was  direct 
energy  in  the  long  arms  and  lean,  nervous  hands. 
Donna  Francesca  liked  to  watch  him  at  his  work, 
as  she  had  watched  him  when  she  was  a  little  girl. 
Now  and  then,  but  very  rarely,  the  lustreless  eyes 
lighted  up,  just  before  he  put  in  some  steady, 
determining  stroke  which  brought  out  the  mean 
ing  of  the  design.  There  was  a  quick  fire  in  them 
then,  at  the  instant  when  the  main  idea  was  out 
wardly  expressed,  and  if  she  spoke  to  him  inadver 
tently  at  such  a  moment,  he  never  answered  her  at 
once,  and  sometimes  forgot  to  answer  her  at  all. 
For  his  art  was  always  first  with  him.  She  knew 
it,  and  she  liked  him  the  better  for  it. 

The  intimacy  between  the  great  lady  and  the 
artist  was,  indeed,  founded  upon  this  devotion  of 
his  to  his  painting,  but  it  was  sustained  by  a  sort 
of  community  of  interests  extending  far  back  into 
darker  ages,  when  his  forefathers  had  been  bonds 
men  to  her  ancestors  in  the  days  of  serfdom.  He 
had  grown  up  with  the  clearly  defined  sensation  of 
belonging  with,  if  not  to,  the  house  of  Braccio. 
His  father  had  been  a  trusty  and  trusted  dependent 
of  the  family,  and  he  had  imbibed  as  a  mere  child 
its  hereditary  likes  and  dislikes,  its  traditions  wise 


234  CAS  A   BBACCIO. 

and  foolish,  together  with  an  indomitable  pride  in 
its  high  fortunes  and  position  in  the  world.  And 
Francesca  herself  was  a  true  Braccio,  though  she 
was  descended  from  a  collateral  branch,  and,  next 
to  the  Prince  of  Gerano,  had  been  to  Eeanda  by 
far  the  most  important  person  bearing  the  name. 
She  had  admired  him  when  she  had  been  a  child, 
had  encouraged  him  as  she  grew  up,  and  now  she 
provided  his  genius  with  employment,  and  gave 
him  her  friendship  as  a  solace  and  delight  both  in 
work  and  idleness.  It  is  said  that  only  Italians 
can  be  admitted  to  such  a  position  with  the  cer 
tainty  that  they  will  not  under  any  circumstances 
presume  upon  it.  To  Angelo  Reanda  it  meant 
much  more  than  to  most  men  who  could  have  been 
placed  as  he  was.  His  genius  raised  him  far  above 
the  class  in  which  he  had  been  born,  and  his  educa 
tion,  with  his  natural  and  acquired  refinement, 
placed  him  on  a  higher  level  than  the  majority  of 
other  Eoman  artists,  who,  in  the  Rome  of  that  day, 
inhabited  a  Bohemia  of  their  own  which  has  com 
pletely  disappeared.  Their  ideas  and  conversation, 
when  they  were  serious,  interested  him,  but  their 
manners  were  not  his,  and  their  gaiety  was  frankly 
distasteful  to  him.  He  associated  with  them  as  an 
artist,  but  not  as  a  companion,  and  he  particularly 
disliked  their  wives  and  daughters,  who,  in  their 
turn,  found  him  too  'serious'  for  their  society,  to 
use  the  time-honoured  Italian  expression.  Never- 


CAS  A    BBACCIO.  235 

theless,  his  natural  gentleness  of  disposition  made 
him  treat  them  all  alike  with  quiet  courtesy,  and 
when,  as  often  happened,  he  was  obliged  to  be  in 
their  company,  he  honestly  endeavoured  to  be  one 
of  them  as  far  as  he  could. 

On  the  other  hand,  he  had  no  footing  in  the 
society  to  which  Francesca  belonged,  but  for  which 
she  cared  so  little.  There  were,  indeed,  one  or 
two  houses  where  he  was  received,  as  he  was  at 
Casa  Braccio,  in  a  manner  which,  for  the  very 
reason  that  it  was  familiar,  proved  his'  social  infe 
riority  —  where  he  addressed  the  head  of  the  house 
as  '  Excellency '  and  was  called  '  Eeanda '  by  every 
body,  elders  and  juniors  alike,  where  he  was  appreci 
ated  as  an  artist,  respected  as  a  man,  and  welcomed 
occasionally  as  a  guest  when  no  other  outsider 
was  present,  but  where  he  was  not  looked  upon  as 
a  personage  to  be  invited  even  with  the  great 
throng  on  state  occasions.  He  was  as  far  from 
receiving  such  cold  acknowledgments  of  social 
existence  as  those  who  received  them  and  nothing 
else  were  distantly  removed  from  intimacy  on  an 
equal  footing. 

He  did  not  complain  of  such  treatment,  nor  even 
inwardly  resent  it.  The  friendliness  shown  him 
was  as  real  as  the  kindness  he  had  received  through 
out  his  early  youth  from  the  Prince  of  Gerano,  and 
he  was  not  the  man  to  undervalue  it  because  he 
had  not  a  drop  of  gentle  blood  in  his  veins.  But 


236  CAS  A    BBACCIO. 

his  refined  uature  craved  refined  intercourse,  and 
preferred  solitude  to  what  he  could  get  in .  any 
lower  sphere.  The  desire  for  the  atmosphere  of 
the  uppermost  class,  rather  than  the  mere  wish  to 
appear  as  one  of  its  members,  often  belongs  to  the 
artistic  temperament,  and  many  artists  are  unjustly 
disliked  by  their  fellows  and  pointed  at  as  snobs 
because  they  prefer,  as  an  atmosphere,  inane  ele 
gance  to  inelegant  intellectuality.  It  is  often  for 
gotten  by  those  who  calumniate  them  that  hered 
itary  elegance,  no  matter  how  empty-headed,  is 
the  result  of  an  hereditary  cultivation  of  what 
is  thought  beautiful,  and  that  the  vainest,  silliest 
woman  who  dresses  well  by  instinct  is  an  artist  in 
her  way. 

In  Francesca  Campodonico  there  was  much  more 
than  such  superficial  taste,  and  in  her  Reanda  found 
the  only  true  companion  he  had  ever  known.  He 
might  have  been  for  twenty  years  the  intimate 
friend  of  all  Roman  society  without  meeting  such 
another,  and  he  knew  it,  and  appreciated  his  good 
fortune.  For  he  was  not  naturally  a  dissatisfied 
man,  nor  at  all  given  to  complain  of  his  lot.  Few 
men  are,  who  have  active,  creative  genius,  and 
whose  profession  gives  them  all  the  scope  they 
need.  Of  late  years,  too,  Francesca  had  treated 
him  with  a  sort  of  deference  which  he  got  from  no 
one  else  in  the  world.  He  realized  that  she  did, 
without  attempting  to  account  for  the  fact,  which, 


CAS  A   BRACCIO.  237 

indeed,  depended  on  something  past  his  compre 
hension. 

He  felt  for  her  something  like  veneration.  The 
word  does  not  express  exactly  the  attitude  of  his 
mind  towards  her,  but  no  other  defines  his  position 
so  well.  He  was  not  in  love  with  her  in  the  Italian 
sense  of  the  expression,  for  he  did  not  conceive  it 
possible  that  she  should  ever  love  him^  whereas  he 
told  himself  that  he  might  possibly  marry,  if  he 
found  a  wife  to  his  taste,  and  be  in  love  with  his 
wife  without  in  the  least  infringing  upon  his  devo 
tion  to  Donna  Francesca. 

That  she  was  young  and  lovely,  if  not  beautiful, 
he  saw  and  knew.  He  even  admitted  unconsciously 
that  if  she  had  been  an  old  woman  he  could  not 
have  '  venerated '  her  as  he  did,  though  veneration, 
as  such,  is  the  due  of  the  old  rather  than  of  the 
young.  Her  spiritual  eyes  and  virginal  face  were 
often  before  him  in  his  dreams  and  waking  thoughts. 
There  was  a  maidenlike  modesty,  as  it  were,  even 
about  her  graceful  bodily  self,  which  belonged,  in 
his  imagination,  to  a  saint  upon  an  altar,  rather 
than  to  a  statue  upon  a  pedestal.  There  was 
something  in  the  sweep  of  her  soft  dark  brown 
hair  which  suggested  that  it  would  be  sacrilege 
and  violence  for  a  man's  hand  to  touch  it.  There 
was  a  dewy  delicacy  on  her  young  lips,  as  though 
they  could  kiss  nothing  more  earthly  than  a  newly 
opened  flower,  already  above  the  earth,  but  not 


238  CASA    BEACCIO. 

yet  touched  by  the  sun.  There  was  a  thoughtful 
turn  of  modelling  in  the  smooth,  white  forehead, 
which  it  was  utterly  beyond  Reanda's  art  to  repro 
duce,  often  as  he  had  tried.  He  thought  a  great 
sculptor  might  succeed,  and  it  was  the  one  thing 
which  made  him  sometimes  wish  that  he  had  taken 
the  chisel  for  his  tool,  instead  of  the  brush. 

She  was  never  considered  one  of  the  great 
beauties  of  Rome.  She  had  not  the  magnificent 
presence  and  colouring  of  her  kinswoman,  Maria 
Addolorata,  whose  tragic  death  in  the  convent  of 
Subiaco — a  fictitious  tragedy  accepted  as  real  by 
all  Roman  society — had  given  her  a  special  place 
in  the  history  of  the  Braccio  family.  She  had  not 
the  dark  and  queenly  splendour  of  Corona  d'Astra- 
dente,  her  contemporary  and  the  most  beautiful 
woman  of  her  time.  But  she  had,  for  those  who 
loved  her,  something  which  was  quite  her  own  and 
which  placed  her  beyond  them  in  some  ways  and, 
in  any  case,  out  of  competition  for  the  homage  re 
ceived  by  the  great  beauties.  No  one  recognized 
this  more  fully  than  Angelo  Reauda,  and  he  would 
as  soon  have  thought  of  being  in  love  with  her,  as 
men  love  women,  as  he  would  have  imagined  that 
his  father,  for  instance,  could  have  loved  Maria 
Addolorata,  the  Carmelite  nun. 

The  one  human  point  in  his  devoted  adoration 
lay  in  his  terror  lest  Francesca  Campodonico  should 
die  young  and  leave  him  to  grow  old  without  her. 
He  sometimes  told  her  so. 


CAS  A   BEACCIO.  289 

"You  should  marry,"  she  answered  one  day, 
when  they  were  together  in  the  great  hall  which 
he  was  decorating. 

She  was  still  dressed  in  black,  and  as  she  spoke, 
he  turned  and  saw  the  outline  of  her  small  pure 
face  against  the  high  back  of  the  old  chair  in 
which  she  was  sitting.  It  was  so  white  just  then 
that  he  fancied  he  saw  in  it  that  fatal  look  which 
belonged  to  some  of  the  Braccio  family,  and  which 
was  always  spoken  of  as  having  been  one  of  Maria 
Addolorata's  chief  characteristics.  He  looked  at 
her  long  and  sadly,  leaning  against  an  upright  of 
his  scaffolding  as  he  stood  on  the  floor  near  her, 
holding  his  brushes  in  his  hand. 

"  I  do  not  think  I  shall  ever  marry,"  he  answered 
at  last,  looking  down  and  idly  mixing  two  colours 
on  his  palette. 

"Why  not  ?  "  she  asked  quickly.  " I  have  heard 
you  say  that  you  might,  some  day." 

"  Some  day,  some  day  —  and  then,  all  at  once, 
the  '  some  day '  is  past,  and  is  not  any  more  in  the 
future.  Why  should  I  marry  ?  I  am  well  enough 
as  I  am ;  there  would  only  be  unhappiness." 

"  Do  you  think  that  every  one  who  marries  must 
be  unhappy  ?  "  she  asked.  "  You  are  cynical.  I 
did  not  know  it." 

"  No.  I  am  not  cynical.  I  say  it  only  of  myself. 
There  are  many  reasons.  I  could  not  marry  such 
a  woman  as  I  should  wish  to  have  for  my  wife. 


240  CAS  A    BRACCIO. 

You  must  surely  understand  that.  It  is  very  easy 
to  understand." 

He  made  as  though  he  would  go  up  the  ladder 
to  his  littl'3  platform  and  continue  his  work.  But 
she  stopped  him. 

"  What  is  the  use  of  hurting  your  eyes  ?  "  she 
asked.  "  It  is  late,  and  the  light  is  bad.  Besides, 
I  am  not  so  sure  that  I  understand  what  you  mean, 
though  you  say  that  it  is  so  easy.  We  have  never 
talked  about  it  much." 

He  laid  his  palette  and  brushes  upon  a  ragged 
straw  chair  and  sat  down  upon  another,  not  far 
from  her.  There  was  no  other  furniture  in  the 
great  vaulted  hall,  and  the  brick  pavement  was 
bare,  and  splashed  in  many  places  with  white  plas 
ter.  Fresco-painting  can  only  be  done  upon  stucco 
just  laid  on,  while  it  is  still  moist,  and  a  mason 
came  early  every  day  and  prepared  as  much  of  the 
wall  as  Reanda  could  cover  before  night.  If  he 
did  not  paint  over  the  whole  surface,  the  remainder 
was  chipped  away  and  freshly  laid  over  on  the  fol 
lowing  morning. 

The  evening  light  already  reddened  the  tall 
western  windows,  for  it  was  autumn,  and  the  days 
were  Shortening  quickly.  Reanda  knew  that  he 
could  not  do  much  more,  and  sat  down,  to  answer 
Francesca's  question,  if  he  could. 

"I  am  not  a  gentlemin,  as  you  understand  the 
word,"  he  said  slowly.  "  And  yet  I  am  certainly 


CAS  A    BRACCIO.  241 

not  of  the  class  to  which  my  father  belonged.  My 
position,  is  not  defined.  1  could  not  marry  a  woman 
of  your  class,  and  I  should  not  care  to  marry  one 
of  any  other.  That  is  all.  Is  it  not  clear  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  Francesca.  "  It  is  clear 
enough.  But  —  " 

She  checked  herself,  and  he  looked  into  her  face, 
expecting  her  to  continue.  But  she  said  nothing 
more. 

"You  were  going  to  find  an  objection  to  what  I 
said,"  he  observed. 

"  No ;  I  was  not.  I  will  say  it,  for  you  will 
understand  me.  What  you  tell  me  is  true  enough, 
and  I  am  sorry  that  it  should  be  so.  Is  it  not  to 
some  extent  my  fault  ?  " 

"  Your  fault  ?  "  cried  Reanda,  leaning  forward 
and  looking  into  her  eyes.  "  How  ?  I  do  not 
understand." 

"  I  blame  myself,"  answered  Francesca,  quietly. 
"I  have  kept  you  out  of  the  world,  perhaps,  and 
in  many  ways.  Here  you  live,  day  after  day,  as 
though  nothing  else  existed  for  you.  In  the  morn 
ing,  long  before  I  am  awake,  you  come  down  your 
staircase  through  that  door,  and  go  up  that  ladder, 
and  work,  and  work,  and  work,  all  day  long,  until  it 
is  dark,  as  you  have  worked  to-day,  and  yesterday, 
and  for  months.  And  when  you  might  and  should 
be  out  of  doors,  or  associating  with  other  people, 
as  just  now,  I  sit  and  talk  to  you  and  take  up  all 

VOL.    I.  R 


242  CAS  A    BBACCIO. 

your  leisure  time.  It  is  wrong.  You  ought  to  see 
more  of  other  men  and  women.  Do  men  of  genius 
never  marry  ?  It  seems  to  me  absurd  !  " 

"  Genius  !  "  exclaimed  Reanda,  shaking  his  head 
sadly.  "  Do  not  use  the  word  of  me." 

"  I  will  do  as  other  people  do,"  answered  "Fran- 
cesca.  "  But  that  is  not  the  question.  The  truth 
is  that  you  live  pent  up  in  this  old  house,  like  a 
bird  in  a  cage.  I  want  you  to  spread  your  wings." 

"  To  go  away  for  a  time  ? "  asked  Reanda, 
anxiously. 

"  I  did  not  say  that.  Perhaps  I  should.  Yes, 
if  you  could  enjoy  a  journey,  go  away  —  for  a 
time." 

She  spoke  with  some  hesitation  and  rather  ner 
vously,  for  he  had  said  more  than  she  had  meant 
to  propose. 

"Just  to  make  a  change,"  she  added,  after  a 
moment's  pause,  as  he  said  nothing.  "You  ought 
to  see  more  of  other  people,  as  I  said.  You  ought 
to  mix  with  the  world.  You  ought  at  least  to 
offer  yourself  the  chance  of  marrying,  even  if  you 
think  that  you  might  not  find  a  wife  to  your 
taste." 

"  If  I  do  not  find  one  here  — "  He  did  not  com 
plete  the  sentence,  but  smiled  a  little. 

"  Must  you  marry  a  Roman  princess  ? "  she 
asked.  "  What  should  you  say  to  a  foreigner  ? 
Is  that  impossible,  too?" 


CASA   BEACCIO.  243 

"It  would  matter  little  where  she  came  from, 
if  I  wished  to  marry  her,"  he  answered.  "But  I 
like  my  life  as  it  is.  Why  should  I  try  to  change 
it?  I  am  happy  as  I  am.  I  work,  and  I  enjoy 
working.  I  work  for  you,  and  you  are  satisfied. 
It  seems  to  me  that  there  is  nothing  more  to  be 
said.  Why  are  you  so  anxious  that  I  should 
marry?" 

Donna  Francesca  laughed  softly,  but  without 
much  mirth. 

"Because  I  think  that  in  some  way  it  is  my 
fault  if  you  have  not  married,"  she  said.  "And 
besides,  I  was  thinking  of  a  young  girl  whom  I 
met,  or  rather,  saw,  the  other  day,  and  who  might 
please  you.  She  has  the  most  beautiful  voice  in 
the  world,  I  think.  She  could  make  her  fortune 
as  a  singer,  and  I  believe  she  wishes  to  try  it. 
But  her  father  objects.  They  are  foreigners  — 
English  or  Scotch  —  it  is  the  same.  She  is  a  mere 
child,  they  say,  but  she  seems  to  be  quite  grown 
up.  There  is  something  strange  about  them.  He 
is  a  man  of  science,  I  am  told,  but  I  fancy  he  is 
one  of  those  English  enthusiasts  about  Italian 
liberty.  His  name  is  Dalrymple." 

"What  a  name!"  Reanda  laughed.  "I  suppose 
they  have  come  to  spend  the  winter  in  Rome,"  he 
added. 

"  Not  at  all.  I  hear  that  they  have  lived  here 
for  years.  But  one  never  meets  the  foreigners, 


244  CAS  A    BRACCIO. 

unless  they  wish  to  be  in  society.  His  wife  died 
young,  they  say,  and  this  girl  is  his  only  daughter. 
I  wish  you  could  hear  her  sing ! " 

"  For  that  matter,  I  wish  I  might,"  said  E/eanda, 
who  was  passionately  fond  of  music. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

SEVENTEEN  years  had  scored  their  account  on 
Angus  Dalrymple's  hard  face,  and  one  great  sor 
row  had  set  an  even  deeper  mark  upon  him  —  a 
sorrow  so  deep  and  so  overwhelming  that  none  had 
ever  dared  to  speak  of  it  to  him.  And  he  was  not 
the  man  to  bear  any  affliction  resignedly,  to  feed 
on  memory,  and  find  rest  in  the  dreams  of  what 
had  been.  Sullenly  and  fiercely  rebellious  against 
his  fate,  he  went  down  life,  rather  than  through 
it,  savage  and  silent,  for  the  most  part,  Nero-like 
in  his  wish  that  he  could  end  the  world  at  a  single 
blow,  himself  and  all  that  lived!  Yet  it  was 
characteristic  of  the  man  that  he  had  not  chosen 
suicide  as  a  means  of  escape,  as  he  would  have 
done  in  his  earlier  years,  if  Maria  Addolorata  had 
failed  him.  It  seemed  cowardly  now,  and  he  had 
never  done  anything  cowardly  in  his  life.  Through 
his  grief  the  sense  of  responsibility  had  remained 
with  him,  and  had  kept  him  alive.  He  looked 
upon  his  existence  not  as  a  state  from  which  he 
had  a  right  to  escape,  but  as  a  personal  enemy  to 
be  fought  with,  to  be  despised,  to  be  ill-treated 
barbarously,  perhaps,  but  still  as  an  enemy  to 
245 


246  CAS  A    BRACCIO. 

murder  whom   in   cold  blood  would  be  an  act  of 
cowardice. 

There  was  little  more  than  the  mere  sense  of  the 
responsibility,  for  he  did  little  enough  to  fulfil  his 
obligations.  His  wife  had  borne  him  a  daughter, 
but  it  was  not  in  Angus  Dalrymple's  nature  to  sub 
stitute  one  being  in  his  heart  for  another.  He  could 
not  love  the  girl  simply  because  her  mother  was 
dead.  He  could  only  spoil  her,  with  a  rough  idea 
that  she  should  be  spared  all  suffering  as  much  as 
possible,  but  that  if  he  gave  her  what  she  wanted, 
he  had  done  all  that  could  be  expected  of  him. 
For  the  rest,  he  lived  his  own  life. 

He  had  a  good  intelligence  and  superior  gifts, 
together  with  considerable  powers  of  intellectual 
acquisition.  He  had  believed  in  his  youth  that  he 
was  destined  to  make  great  discoveries,  and  his 
papers  afterwards  showed  that  he  was  really  on 
the  track  of  great  and  new  things.  But  with  his 
bereavement,  all  ambition  as  well  as  all  curiosity 
disappeared  in  one  day  from  his  character.  Since 
then  he  had  never  gone  back  to  his  studies,  which 
disgusted  him  and  seemed  stale  and  flat.  He 
grew  rudely  dogmatical  when  scientific  matters 
were  discussed  before  him,  as  he  had  become  rough, 
tyrannical,  and  almost  violent  in  his  ordinary  deal 
ings  with  the  world,  whenever  he  found  any  oppo 
sition  to  his  opinions  or  his  will.  The  only  excep 
tion  he  made  was  in  his  treatment  of  his  daughter, 


CASA    BRACCIO.  247 

whom  he  indulged  in  every  way  except  in  her 
desire  to  be  a  public  singer.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  to  give  her  everything  she  wanted  was  to  ful 
fil  all  his  obligations  to  her  ;  in  the  one  question 
of  appearing  on  the  stage  he  was  inflexible.  He 
simply  refused  to  hear  of  it,  rarely  giving  her  any 
reasons  beyond  the  ordinary  ones  which  present 
themselves  in  such  cases,  and  which  were  far  from 
answering  the  impulse  of  the  girl's  genius. 

They  had  called  her  Gloria  in  the  days  of  their 
passionate  happiness.  The  sentimental  name  had 
meant  a  great  deal  to  them,  for  Dalrymple  had 
at  that  time  developed  that  sort  of  uncouth  senti 
mentality  which  is  in  strong  men  like  a  fungus  on 
an  oak,  and  disgusts  them  afterwards  unless  they 
are  able  to  forget  it.  The  two  had  felt  that  the 
glory  of  life  was  in  the  child,  and  they  had  named 
her  for  it,  as  it  were. 

Years  afterwards  Dalrymple  brought  the  little 
girl  to  Rome,  drawn  back  irresistibly  to  the  place 
by  that  physical  association  of  impressions  which 
moves  such  men  strongly.  They  had  remained, 
keeping  from  year  to  year  a  lodging  Dalrymple 
had  hired,  at  first  hired  for  a  few  months.  He 
never  went  to  Subiaco. 

He  gave  Gloria  teachers,  the  best  that  could  be 
found,  and  there  were  good  instructors  in  those 
days  when  people  were  willing  to  take  time  in 
learning.  In  music  she  had  her  mother's  voice 


248  CAS  A    BRACCIO. 

and  talent.  Her  father  gave  her  a  musician's 
opportunities,  and  it  was  no  wonder  that  she  should 
dream  of  conquering  Europe  from  behind  the  foot 
lights  as  Grisi  had  done,  and  as  Patti  was  just 
about  to  do  in  her  turn. 

She  and  her  father  spoke  English  together,  but 
Gloria  was  bilingual,  as  children  of  mixed  marriages 
often  are,  speaking  English  and  Italian  with  equal 
ease.  Dalrymple  found  a  respectable  middle-aged 
German  governess  who  came  daily  and  spent  most 
of  the  day  with  Gloria,  teaching  her  and  walking 
with  her  —  worshipping  her,  too,  with  that  curious 
faculty  for  idealizing  the  very  human,  which  be 
longs  to  German  governesses  when  they  like  their 
pupils. 

Dalrymple  led  his  own  life.  Had  he  chosen  to 
mix  in  Roman  society,  he  would  have  been  well 
received,  as  a  member  of  a  great  Scotch  family  and 
not  very  far  removed  from  the  head  of  his  house. 
No  one  of  his  relatives  had  ever  known  the  truth 
about  his  wife  except  his  father,  who  had  died 
with  the  secret,  and  it  was  not  likely  that  any  one 
should  ask  questions.  If  any  one  did,  he  would 
certainly  not  satisfy  such  curiosity.  But  he  cared 
little  for  society,  and  spent  his  time  either  alone 
with  books  and  wine,  or  in  occasional  excursions 
-into  the  artist  world,  where  his  eccentricities  ex 
cited  little  remark,  and  where  he  met  men  who 
secretly  sympathized  with  the  Italian  revolutionary 


CAS  A   BRACCIO.  249 

movement,  and  dabbled  in  conspiracies  which 
rather  amused  than  disquieted  the  papal  govern 
ment. 

Though  Gloria  was  at  that  time  but  little  more 
than  sixteen  years  of  age,  her  father  took  her  with 
him  to  little  informal  parties  at  the  studios  or  even 
at  the  houses  of  artists,  where  there  was  often 
good  music,  and  clever  if  not  serious  conversation. 
The  conventionalities  of  age  were  little  regarded 
in  such  circles.  Gloria  appeared,  too,  much  older 
than  she  really  was,  and  her  marvellous  voice  made 
her  a  centre  of  attraction  at  an  age  when  most 
young  girls  are  altogether  in  the  background.  Dal- 
rymple  never  objected  to  her  singing  on  such  occa 
sions,  and  he  invariably  listened  with  closed  eyes 
and  folded  hands,  as  though  he  were  assisting  at  a 
religious  service.  Her  voice  was  like  her  mother's, 
excepting  that  it  was  pitched  higher,  and  had  all 
the  compass  and  power  necessary  for  a  great 
soprano.  Dalrymple's  almost  devout  attitude  when 
Gloria  was  singing  was  the  only  allusion,  if  one 
may  call  it  so,  which  he  ever  made  to  his  dead 
wife's  existence,  and  no  one  who  watched  him 
knew  what  it  meant.  But  he  was  often  more  silent 
than  usual  after  she  had  sung,  and  he  sometimes 
went  off  by  himself  afterwards  and  sat  for  hours 
in  one  of  the  old  wine  cellars  near  the  Capitol, 
drinking  gloomily  of  the  oldest  and  strongest  he 
could  find.  For  he  drank  more  or  less  perpetually 


250  CASA   BRACCIO. 

in  the  evening,  and  wine  made  him  melancholic 
and  morose,  though  it  did  not  seem  to  affect  him 
otherwise.  Little  by  little,  however,  it  was  dull 
ing  the  early  keenness  of  his  intellect,  though  it 
hardly  touched  his  constitution  at  all.  He  was 
lean  and  bony  still,  as  in  the  old  days,  but  paler 
in  the  face,  and  he  had  allowed  his  red  beard  to 
grow.  It  was  streaked  with  grey,  and  there  were 
small,  nervous  lines  about  his  eyes,  as  well  as  deep 
furrows  on  his  forehead  and  face. 

Dalrymple  had  found  in  the  artist  world  a  man 
who  was  something  of  a  companion  to  him  at 
times,  —  a  very  young  man,  whom  he  could  not 
understand,  though  his  own  dogmatic  temper  made 
him  as  a  rule  believe  that  he  understood  most 
things  and  most  men.  But  this  particular  individ 
ual  alternately  puzzled,  delighted,  and  irritated 
the  nervous  Scotchman. 

They  had  made  acquaintance  at  an  artists'  supper 
in  the  previous  year,  had  afterwards  met  acciden 
tally  at  the  bookseller's  in  the  Piazza  di  Spagna, 
where  they  both  went  from  time  to  time  to  look 
at  the  English  newspapers,  and  little  by  little  they 
had  fallen  into  the  habit  of  meeting  there  of  a 
morning,  and  of  strolling  in  the  direction  of  Dal- 
rymple's  lodging  afterwards.  At  last  Dalrymple 
had  asked  his  companion  to  come  in  and  look  at  a 
book,  and  so  the  acquaintance  had  grown.  Gloria 
watched  the  young  stranger,  and  at  first  she  dis 
liked  him. 


CASA   BBACCIO.  251 

The  aforesaid  bookseller  dealt,  and  deals  still, 
in  photographs  and  prints,  as  well  as  in  foreign 
and  Italian  books.  At  the  present  time  his  estab 
lishment  is  distinctively  a  Roman  Catholic  one. 
In  those  days  it  was  almost  the  only  one  of  its 
kind,  and  was  patronized  alike  by  Romans  and 
foreigners.  Even  Donna  Francesca  Campodonico 
went  there  from  time  to  time  for  a  book  on  art  or 
an  engraving  which  she  and  Keanda  needed  for 
their  work.  They  occasionally  walked  all  the  way 
from  the  Palazzetto  Borgia  to  the  Piazza  di  Spagna 
together  in  the  morning.  When  they  had  found 
what  they  wanted,  Donna  Francesca  generally 
drove  home  in  a  cab,  and  Reanda  went  to  his  mid 
day  meal  before  returning.  For  the  line  of  his 
intimacy  with  her  was  drawn  at  this  point.  He 
had  never  sat  down  at  the  same  table  with  her,  and 
he  never  expected  to  do  so.  As  the  two  stood  to 
one  another  at  present,  though  Francesca  would 
willingly  have  asked  him  to  breakfast,  she  would 
have  hesitated  to  do  so,  merely  because  the  first  in 
vitation  would  inevitably  call  attention  to  the  fact 
that  the  line  had  been  drawn  somewhere,  whereas 
both  were  willing  to  believe  that  it  had  never 
existed  at  all.  Under  any  pressure  of  necessity 
she  would  have  driven  with  him  in  a  cab,  but  not 
in  her  own  carriage.  They  both  knew  it,  and  by 
tacit  consent  never  allowed  such  unknown  possi 
bilities  to  suggest  themselves.  But  in  the  mornings, 


252  CASA   BRACCIO. 

there  was  nothing  to  prevent  their  walking  together 
as  far  as  the  Piazza  di  Spagna,  or  anywhere  else. 

They  went  to  the  bookseller's  one  day  soon  after 
the  conversation  which  had  led  Francesca  to  men 
tion  the  Dalrymples.  As  they  walked  along  the 
east  side  of  the  great  square,  they  saw  two  men 
before  them. 

"There  goes  the  Gladiator,"  said  Keanda  to  his 
companion,  suddenly.  "There  is  no  mistaking 
his  walk,  even  at  this  distance." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  asked  Francesca.  "  Un 
less  I  am  mistaken,  the  man  who  is  a  little  the 
taller,  the  one  in  the  rough  English  clothes,  is  Mr. 
Dalrymple.  I  spoke  of  him  the  other  day,  you 
know." 

"Oh!  Is  that  he?  The  other  has  a  still  more 
extraordinary  name.  He  is  Paul  Griggs.  He  is 
the  son  of  an  American  consul  who  died  in  Civita 
Vecchia  twenty  years  ago,  and  left  him  a  sort  of 
waif,  for  he  had  no  money  and  apparently  no  rela 
tives.  Somehow  he  has  grown  up,  Heaven  knows 
how,  and  gets  a  living  by  journalism.  I  believe 
he  was  at  sea  for  some  years  as  a  boy.  He  is 
really  as  much  Italian  as  American.  I  have  met 
him  with  artists  and  literary  people." 

"Why  do  you  call  him  the  Gladiator?"  asked 
Francesca,  with  some  interest. 

"It  is  a  nickname  he  has  got.  Cotogni,  the 
sculptor,  was  in  despair  for  a  model  last  year. 


CAS  A    BEACCIO.  253 

Griggs  and  two  or  three  other  men  were  in  the 
studio,  and  somebody  suggested  that  Griggs  was 
very  near  the  standard  of  the  ancients  in  his  pro 
portions.  They  persuaded  him  to  let  them  meas 
ure  him.  You  know  that  in  the  'Canons'  of  pro 
portion,  the  Borghese  Gladiator  —  the  one  in  the 
Louvre  —  is  given  as  the  best  example  of  an 
athlete.  They  measured  Griggs  then  and  there, 
and  found  that  he  was  at  all  points  the  exact  living 
image  of  the  statue.  The  name  has  stuck  to  him. 
You  see  what  a  fellow  he  is,  and  how  he  walks." 

"Yes,  he  looks  strong,"  said  Francesca,  watching 
the  man  with  natural  curiosity. 

The  young  American  was  a  little  shorter  than 
Dalrymple,  but  evidently  better  proportioned.  No 
one  could  fail  to  notice  the  vast  breadth  of  shoul 
der,  the  firm,  columnar  throat,  and  the  small  ath 
lete's  head  with  close-set  ears.  He  moved  without 
any  of  that  swinging  motion  of  the  upper  part  of 
the  body  which  is  natural  to  many  strong  men  and 
was  noticeable  in  Dalrymple,  but  there  was  some 
thing  peculiar  in  his  walk,  almost  undefmable,  but 
conveying  the  idea  of  very  great  strength  with 
very  great  elasticity. 

"But  he  is  an  ugly  man,"  observed  Keanda, 
almost  immediately.  "Ugly,  but  not  repulsive. 
You  will  see,  if  he  turns  his  head.  His  face  is 
like  a  mask.  It  is  not  the  face  you  would  expect 
with  such  a  body." 


254  CASA   BRACCIO. 

"  How  curious ! "  exclaimed  Francesca,  rather 
idly,  for  her  interest  in  Paul  Griggs  was  almost 
exhausted. 

They  went  on  along  the  crowded  pavement. 
When  they  reached  the  bookseller's  and  went  in, 
they  saw  that  the  two  men  were  there  before  them, 
looking  over  the  foreign  papers,  which  were  neatly 
arranged  on  a  little  table  apart.  Dalrymple  looked 
up  and  recognized  Francesca,  to  whom  he  had  been 
introduced  at  a  small  concert  given  for  a  charity 
in  a  private  house,  on  which  occasion  Gloria  had 
sung.  He  lifted  his  hat  from  his  head  and  laid  it 
down  upon  the  newspapers,  when  Francesca  rather 
unexpectedly  held  out  her  hand  to  him  in  English 
fashion.  He  had  left  a  card  at  her  house  on  the 
day  after  their  meeting,  but  as  she  was  alone  in  the 
world,  she  had  no  means  of  returning  the  civility. 

"  It  would  give  me  great  pleasure  if  you  would 
bring  your  daughter  to  see  me,"  she  said  graciously. 

"  You  are  very  kind, "  answered  Dalrymple,  his 
steely  blue  eyes  scrutinizing  her  pure  young  fea 
tures. 

She  only  glanced  at  him,  for  she  was  suddenly 
conscious  that  his  companion  was  looking  at  her. 
He,  too,  had  laid  down  his  hat,  and  she  instantly 
understood  what  Keanda  had  meant  by  comparing 
his  face  to  a  mask.  The  features  were  certainly 
very  far  from  handsome.  If  they  were  redeemed  at 
all,  it  was  by  the  very  deep-set  eyes,  which  gazed 


CAS  A   BRACCIO.  255 

into  hers  in  a  strangely  steady  way,  as  though 
the  lids  never  could  droop  from  under  the  heavy 
overhanging  brow,  and  then,  still  unwinking, 
turned  in  another  direction.  The  man's  complex 
ion  was  of  that  perfectly  even  but  almost  sallow 
colour  which  often  belongs  to  very  strong  melan 
cholic  temperaments.  His  face  was  clean-shaven 
and  unnaturally  square  and  expressionless,  except 
ing  for  such  life  as  there  was  in  the  deep  eyes. 
Dark,  straight,  closely  cut  hair  grew  thick  and 
smooth  as  a  priest's  skull-cap,  low  on  the  forehead 
and  far  forward  at  the  temples.  The  level  mouth, 
firmly  closed,  divided  the  lower  part  of  the  face 
like  the  scar  of  a  straight  sabre-cut.  The  nose 
was  very  thick  between  the  eyes,  relatively  long, 
with  unusually  broad  nostrils  which  ran  upward 
from  the  point  to  the  lean  cheeks.  The  man  wore 
very  dark  clothes  of  extreme  simplicity,  and  at  a 
time  when  pins  and  chains  were  much  in  fashion, 
he  had  not  anything  visible  about  him  of  gold  or 
silver.  He  wore  his  watch  on  a  short,  doubled 
piece  of  black  silk  braid  slipped  through  his 
buttonhole.  He  dressed  almost  as  though  he 
were  in  mourning. 

Francesca  unconsciously  looked  at  him  so  in 
tently  for  a  moment  that  Dalrymple  thought  it 
natural  to  introduce  him,  fancying  that  she  might 
have  heard  of  him  and  might  wish  to  know  him 
out  of  curiosity. 


256  CAS  A   BRACCIO. 

"May  I  introduce  Mr.  Griggs?"  he  said,  with 
the  stiff  inclination  which  was  a  part  of  his  man 
ner. 

Griggs  bowed,  and  Donna  Francesca  bent  her 
head  a  little.  Reanda  came  up  and  shook  hands 
with  the  American,  and  Francesca  introduced  the 
artist  to  Dalrymple. 

"I  have  long  wished  to  have  the  pleasure  of 
knowing  you,  Signer  Reanda,"  said  the  latter. 
"We  have  many  mutual  acquaintances  among  the 
artists  here.  I  may  say  that  I  am  a  great  admirer 
of  your  work,  and  my  daughter,  too,  for  that 
matter." 

Reanda  said  something  civil  as  his  hand  parted 
from  the  Scotchman's.  Francesca  saw  an  oppor 
tunity  of  bringing  Reanda  and  Gloria  together. 

"As  you  like  Signer  Reanda's  painting  so  much," 
she  said  to  Dalrymple,  "will  you  not  bring  your 
daughter  this  afternoon  to  see  the  frescoes  he  is 
doing  in  my  house?  You  know  the  Palazzetto? 
Of  course  —  you  left  a  card,  but  I  had  no  one  to 
return  it,"  she  added  rather  sadly.  "Will  you 
also  come,  Mr.  Griggs?"  she  asked,  turning  to  the 
American.  "  It  will  give  me  much  pleasure,  and 
I  see  you  know  Signor  Reanda.  This  afternoon, 
if  you  like,  at  any  time  after  four  o'clock." 

Both  Dalrymple  and  Griggs  secretly  wondered 
a  little  at  receiving  such  an  invitation  from  a 
Roman  lady  whom  the  one  had  met  but  once  before, 


CASA    BRACC1O.  257 

and  to  whom  the  other  had  but  just  been  intro 
duced.  But  they  bowed  their  thanks,  and  promised 
to  come. 

After  a  few  more  words  they  separated,  Francesca 
and  Reanda  to  pick  out  the  engraving  they  wanted, 
and  the  other  two  men  to  return  to  their  news 
papers.  By  and  bye  Francesca  passed  them  again, 
on  her  way  out. 

"I  shall  expect  you  after  four  o'clock,"  she  said, 
nodding  graciously  as  she  went  by. 

Dalrymple  looked  after  her,  till  she  had  left  the 
shop. 

"That  woman  is  not  like  other  women,  I  think," 
he  said  thoughtfully,  to  his  companion. 

The  mask-like  face  turned  itself  deliberately 
towards  him,  with  shadowy,  unwinking  eyes. 

"No,"  answered  Griggs,  and  he  slowly  took  up 
his  paper  again. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

DONNA  FRANCESCA  received  her  three  guests  in 
the  drawing-room,  on  the  side  of  the  house  which 
she  inhabited.  Reanda  was  at  his  work  in  the 
great  hall. 

Gloria  entered  first,  followed  closely  by  her 
father,  and  Francesca  was  dazzled  by  the  young 
girl's  brilliancy  of  colour  and  expression,  though 
she  had  seen  her  once  before.  As  she  came  in,  the 
afternoon  sun  streamed  upon  her  face  and  turned 
her  auburn  hair  to  red  gold,  and  gleamed  upon  her 
small  white  teeth  as  her  strong  lips  parted  to  speak 
the  first  words.  She  was  tall  and  supple,  graceful 
as  a  panther,  and  her  voice  rang  and  whispered 
and  rang  again  in  quick  changes  of  tone,  like  a 
waterfall  in  the  woods  in  summer.  With  much  of 
her  mother's  beauty,  she  had  inherited  from  her 
father  the  violent  vitality  of  his  youth.  Yet  she 
was  not  noisy,  though  her  manners  were  not  like 
Francesca's.  Her  voice  rippled  and  rang,  but  she 
did  not  speak  too  loud.  She  moved  swiftly  and 
surely,  but  not  with  rude  haste.  Nevertheless,  it 
seemed  to  Francesca  that  there  must  be  some 
exaggeration  somewhere.  The  elder  woman  at 
258 


CAS  A    BBACCIO.  259 

first  set  it  down  as  a  remnant  of  schoolgirl  shy 
ness,  and  then  at  once  felt  that  she  was  mistaken, 
because  there  was  not  the  smallest  awkwardness 
nor  lack  of  self-possession  about  it.  The  contrast 
between  the  young  girl  and  Paul  Griggs  was  so 
striking  as  to  be  almost  violent.  He  was  cold  and 
funereal  in  his  leonine  strength,  and  his  face  was 
more  like  a  mask  than  ever  as  he  bowed  and  sat 
down  in  silence.  When  he  did  not  remind  her  of 
a  gladiator,  he  made  her  think  of  a  black  lion  with 
a  strange,  human  face,  and  eyes  that  were  not 
exactly  human,  though  they  did  not  remind  her 
of  any  animal's  eyes  which  she  had  ever  seen. 

As  for  Dalrymple,  she  thought  that  he  was 
singularly  haggard  and  worn  for  a  man  apparently 
only  in  middle  age.  There  was  a  certain  impos 
ing  air  about  him,  which  she  liked.  Besides,  she 
rarely  met  foreigners,  and  they  interested  her. 
She  noticed  that  both  men  wore  black  coats  and 
carried  their  tall  hats  in  their  hands.  They  were 
therefore  not  artists,  nor  to  be  classed  with  artists. 
She  was  still  young  enough  to  judge  them  to  some 
extent  by  details,  to  which  people  attached  a  good 
deal  more  importance  at  that  time  than  at  present. 
She  made  up  her  mind  in  the  course  of  the  next 
few  minutes  that  both  Dalrymple  and  Griggs  be 
longed  to  her  own  class,  though  she  did  not  ask 
herself  where  the  young  American  had  got  his  man 
ners.  But  somehow,  though  Gloria  fascinated 


260  CASA    BRACC10. 

her  eyes  and  her  ears,  she  set  down  the  girl  as 
being  inferior  to  her  father.  She  wondered 
whether  Gloria's  mother  had  not  been  an  actress; 
which  was  a  curious  reflexion,  considering  that  the 
dead  woman  had  been  of  her  own  house  and  name. 

After  exchanging  a  few  words  with  her  guests, 
Francesca  suggested  that  they  should  cross  to  the 
other  side  and  see  the  frescoes,  adding  that  Reanda 
was  probably  still  at  work. 

"You  know  him,  Mr.  Griggs?"  she  said,  as  they 
all  rose  to  leave  the  room. 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  "as  one  man  knows  an 
other." 

"What  does  that  mean? "  asked  Francesca,  mov 
ing  towards  the  door  to  lead  the  way. 

"  It  does  not  mean  much,"  replied  the  young  man, 
with  curious  ambiguity. 

He  was  very  gentle  in  his  manner,  and  spoke  in 
a  low  voice  and  rather  diffidently.  She  looked  at 
him  as  though  mentally  determining  to  renew  the 
question  at  some  other  time.  Her  first  impression 
was  that  of  a  sort  of  duality  about  the  man,  as  she 
found  the  possibility  of  a  double  meaning  in  his 
answer.  His  magnificent  frame  seemed  to  belong 
to  one  person,  his  voice  and  manner  to  another. 
Both  might  be  good  in  their  way,  but  her  curiosity 
was  excited  by  the  side  which  was  the  less  apparent. 

They  all  went  through  the  house  till  they  came 
to  a  door  which  divided  the  inhabited  part  from  the 


CAS  A    BBACCIO.  261 

hall  in  which  Reanda  was  working.  She  knocked 
gently  upon  it  with  her  knuckles,  and  then  smiled 
as  she  saw  Gloria  looking  at  her. 

"We  keep  it  locked,"  she  said.  "The  masons 
come  in  the  morning  to  lay  on  the  stucco.  One 
never  trusts  those  people.  Signor  Eeanda  keeps 
the  key  of  this  door." 

The  artist  opened  from  within,  and  stood  aside 
to  let  the  party  pass.  He  started  perceptibly 
when  he  first  saw  Gloria.  As  a  boy  he  had  seen 
Maria  Braccio  more  than  once  before  she  had 
entered  the  convent,  and  he  was  struck  by  the 
girl's  strong  resemblance  to  her.  Francesca,  fol 
lowing  Gloria,  saw  his  movement  of  surprise,  and 
attributed  it  merely  to  admiration  or  astonishment 
such  as  she  had  felt  herself  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
earlier.  She  smiled  a  little  as  she  went  by,  and 
Reanda  knew  that  the  smile  was  for  him  because 
he  had  shown  surprise.  He  understood  the  misin 
terpretation,  and  resented  it  a  little. 

But  she  knew  Reanda  well,  and  before  ten  min 
utes  had  passed  she  had  convinced  herself  that  he 
was  repelled  rather  than  attracted  by  the  young 
girl,  in  spite  of  the  latter's  undisguised  admira 
tion  of  his  work.  It  was  not  mere  unintelligent 
enthusiasm,  either,  and  he  might  well  have  been 
pleased  and  flattered  by  her  unaffected  praise. 

She  was  interested,  too,  in  the  technical  mechan 
ics  of  fresco-painting,  which  she  had  never  before 


262  CASA    BBACCIO. 

been  able  to  see  at  close  quarters.  Everything 
interested  Gloria,  and  especially  everything  con 
nected  with  art.  As  soon  as  they  had  all  spoken 
their  first  words  of  compliment  and  appreciation, 
she  entered  into  conversation  with  the  painter, 
asking  him  all  sorts  of  questions,  and  listening 
earnestly  to  what  he  said,  until  he  realized  that 
she  was  certainly  not  assuming  an  appearance  of 
admiration  for  the  sake  of  flattering  him. 

Meanwhile  Francesca  talked  with  Griggs,  and 
Dalrymple,  having  gone  slowly  round  the  hall 
alone  after  all  the  others,  came  and  stood  be 
side  the  two  and  watched  Francesca,  occasionally 
offering  a  rather  dry  remark  in  a  somewhat 
absent-minded  way.  It  was  all  rather  common 
place  and  decidedly  quiet,  and  he  was  not  much 
amused,  though  from  time  to  time  he  seemed  to 
become  absorbed  in  studying  Francesca's  face,  as 
though  he  saw  something  there  which  was  past  his 
comprehension.  She  noticed  that  he  watched  her, 
and  felt  a  little  uncomfortable  under  his  steely 
blue  eyes,  so  that  she  turned  her  head  and  talked 
more  with  Griggs  than  with  him.  Kemembering 
what  Eeanda  had  told  her  of  the  young  man's 
origin,  she  did  not  like  to  ask  him  the  common 
questions  about  residence  in  Rome  and  his  liking 
for  Italy.  She  was  self-possessed  and  ready  enough 
at  conversation,  and  she  chose  to  talk  of  general 
subjects.  They  talked  in  Italian,  of  course.  Dal- 


CAS  A    BEACCIO.  263 

rymple,  as  of  old,  spoke  fluently,  but  with  a  strange 
accent.  Any  one  would  have  taken  Paul  Griggs 
for  a  Roman.  At  last,  almost  in  spite  of  herself, 
she  made  a  remark  about  his  speech. 

"I  was  born  here,"  answered  Griggs.  "It  is 
much  more  remarkable  that  Miss  Dalrymple  should 
speak  Italian  as  she  does,  having  been  born  in 
Scotland." 

"Are  you  talking  about  me?"  asked  the  young 
girl,  turning  her  head  quickly,  though  she  was 
standing  with  Eeanda  at  some  distance  from  the 
others. 

"  I  was  speaking  of  your  accent  in  Italian, "  said 
Griggs. 

"Is  there  anything  wrong  about  it?"  asked 
Gloria,  with  an  anxiety  that  seemed  exaggerated. 

"On  the  contrary,"  answered  Donna  Francesca, 
"Mr.  Griggs  was  telling  me  how  perfectly  you 
speak.  But  I  had  noticed  it." 

"Oh!  I  thought  Mr.  Griggs  was  finding  fault," 
answered  Gloria,  turning  to  Reanda  again. 

Dalrymple  looked  at  his  daughter  as  though  he 
were  annoyed.  The  eyes  of  Francesca  and  Griggs 
met  for  a  moment.  All  three  were  aware  that  they 
resented  the  young  girl's  quick  question  as  one 
which  they  themselves  would  not  have  asked  in 
her  place,  had  they  accidentally  heard  their  names 
mentioned  in  a  distant  conversation.  But  Fran 
cesca  instantly  went  on  with  the  subject. 


264  CAS  A    BBACCIO. 

"To  us  Italians,"  she  said,  "it  seems  incredible 
that  any  one  should  speak  our  language  and  English 
equally  well.  It  is  as  though  you  were  two  per 
sons,  Mr.  Griggs,"  she  added,  smiling  at  the  cov 
ered  expression  of  her  thought  about  him. 

"  I  sometimes  think  so  myself,"  answered  Griggs, 
with  one  of  his  steady  looks.  "  In  a  way,  every 
one  must  have  a  sort  of  duality  —  a  good  and  evil 
principle." 

"God  and  the  devil,"  suggested  Francesca, 
simply. 

"  Body  and  soul  would  do,  I  STippose.  The  one 
is  always  in  slavery  to  the  other.  The  result  is 
a  sinner  or  a  saint,  as  the  case  may  be.  One  never 
can  tell,"  he  added  more  carelessly.  "I  am  not 
sure  that  it  matters.  But  one  can  see  it.  The 
battle  is  fought  in  the  face." 

"  I  do  not  understand.     What  battle?  " 

"  The  battle  between  body  and  soul.  The  face 
tells  which  way  the  fight  is  going." 

She  looked  at  his  own,  and  she  felt  that  she  could 
not  tell.  But  to  a  certain  extent  she  understood 
him. 

"  Griggs  is  full  of  theories,"  observed  Dalrymple. 
"Gloria,  come  down!"  he  cried  in  English,  sud 
denly. 

Gloria,  intent  upon  understanding  how  fresco- 
painting  was  done,  was  boldly  mounting  the  steps 
of  the  ladder  towards  the  top  of  the  little  scaffold- 


CAS  A    BEACCIO.  265 

ing,  which  might  have  been  fourteen  feet  high. 
For  the  vault  had  long  been  finished,  and  Keanda 
was  painting  the  walls. 

"Nonsense,  papa!"  answered  the  young  girl, 
also  in  English.  "There's  no  danger  at  all." 

"Well  —  don't  break  your  neck,"  said  Dal- 
rymple.  "I  wish  you  would  come  down,  though." 

Francesca  was  surprised  at  his  indifference,  and 
at  his  daughter's  calm  disregard  of  his  authority. 
Timid,  too,  as  most  Italian  women  of  higher  rank, 
she  watched  the  girl  nervously.  Griggs  raised  his 
eyes  without  lifting  his  head. 

"Gloria  is  rather  wild,"  said  Dalrymple,  in  a 
sort  of  apology.  "  I  hope  you  will  forgive  her  — 
she  is  so  much  interested." 

"  Oh  —  if  she  wishes  to  see,  let  her  go,  of 
course,"  answered  Francesca,  concealing  a  little 
nervous  irritation  she  felt. 

A  moment  later  Gloria  and  Keanda  were  on  the 
small  platform,  on  one  side  of  which  only  there  was 
a  hand  rail.  It  had  been  made  for  him,  and  his 
head  was  steady  even  at  a  much  greater  elevation. 
He  was  pointing  out  to  her  the  way  in  which  the 
colours  slowly  changed  as  the  stucco  dried  from 
day  to  day,  and  explaining  how  it  was  impossible 
to  see  the  effect  of  what  was  done  until  all  was 
completely  dry.  The  others  continued  to  talk 
below,  but  Griggs  glanced  up  from  time  to  time, 
and  Francesca's  eyes  followed  his.  Dalrymple 


266  CAS  A    BE  AC  CIO. 

had  become  indifferent,  allowing  his  daughter  to 
do  what  she  pleased,  as  usual. 

When  Gloria  had  seen  all  she  wished  to  see,  she 
turned  with  a  quick  movement  to  come  down  again, 
and  on  turning,  she  found  herself  much  nearer  to 
the  edge  than  she  had  expected.  She  was  bending 
forwards  a  little,  and  G-riggs  saw  at  once  that  she 
must  lose  her  balance,  unless  Keanda  caught  her 
from  behind.  But  she  made  no  sound,  and  turned 
very  white  as  she  swayed  a  little,  trying  to  throw 
herself  back. 

With  a  swift  movement  that  was  gentle  but  irre 
sistible,  Griggs  pushed  Francesca  back,  keeping 
his  eyes  on  the  girl  above.  It  all  happened  in  an 
instant. 

"  Jump !  "  he  cried,  in  a  voice  of  command. 

She  had  felt  that  she  must  spring  or  fall,  and 
her  body  was  already  overbalanced  as  she  threw 
herself  off,  instinctively  gathering  her  skirt  with 
her  hands.  Dalrymple  turned  as  pale  as  she.  If 
she  struck  the  bare  brick  floor,  she  could  scarcely 
escape  serious  injury.  But  she  did  not  reach  it, 
for  Paul  Griggs  caught  her  in  his  arms,  swayed 
with  her  weight,  then  stood  as  steady  as  a  rock, 
and  set  her  gently  upon  her  feet,  beside  her  father. 

"  Maria  Santissima !  "  cried  Francesca,  terrified, 
though  instantly  relieved,  and  dimly  understand 
ing  the  stupendous  feat  of  bodily  strength  which 
had  just  been  done  before  her  eyes. 


CAS  A   BEACCIO.  267 

Above,  Keanda  leaned  upon  the  single  rail  of 
the  scaffolding  with  wide-staring  eyes.  Gloria  was 
faint  with  the  shock  of  fear,  and  grasped  her 
father's  arm. 

"  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself !  "  he  said 
roughly,  in  English,  but  in  a  low  voice.  "You 
probably  owe  your  life  to  Mr.  Griggs,"  he  added, 
immediately  regaining  his  self-possession. 

Griggs  alone  seemed  wholly  unmoved  by  what 
had  happened.  Gloria  had  held  one  of  her  gloves 
loosely  in  her  hand,  and  it  had  fallen  to  the  ground 
as  she  sprang.  He  picked  it  up  and  handed  it  to 
her  with  a  curious  gentleness. 

"It  must  be  yours,  Miss  Dalrymple,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

IT  was  late  before  Eeanda  and  Donna  Fran- 
eesca  were  alone  together  on  that  afternoon. 
When  the  first  surprise  and  shock  of  Gloria's 
accident  had  passed,  Francesca  would  not  allow 
Dalryrnple  to  take  her  away  at  once,  as  he  seemed 
anxious  to  do.  The  girl  was  not  in  the  least  hurt, 
but  she  was  still  dazed  and  frightened.  Francesca 
took  them  all  back  to  the  drawing-room  and  insisted 
upon  giving  them  tea,  because  they  were  foreigners, 
and  Gloria,  she  said,  must  naturally  need  some 
thing  to  restore  her  nerves.  Eoman  tea,  thirty 
years  ago,  was  a  strange  and  uncertain  beverage, 
as  both  Gloria  and  her  father  knew,  but  they 
drank  what  Francesca  gave  them,  and  at  last 
went  away  with  many  apologies  for  the  disturb 
ance  they  had  made.  To  tell  the  truth,  Francesca 
was  glad  when  they  were  gone  and  she  was  at 
liberty  to  return  to  the  hall  where  Eeanda  was 
still  at  work.  She  found  him  nervous  and  irri 
tated.  He  came  down  from  the  scaffolding  as 
soon  as  he  heard  her  open  the  door.  Neither  spoke 
until  she  had  seated  herself  in  her  accustomed 
chair,  with  a  very  frank  sigh  of  relief. 
2G8 


CASA    BRACCIO.  269 

"  I  am  very  grateful  to  you,  Donna  Francesca," 
said  Keanda,  twisting  his  beard  round  bis  long, 
thin  fingers,  as  he  glanced  at  her  and  then  sur 
veyed  his  work. 

"  It  was  your  fault,"  she  answered,  tapping  the 
worm-eaten  arms  of  the  old  chair  with  both  her 
white  hands,  for  she  herself  was  still  annoyed  and 
irritated.  "Do  not  make  me  responsible  for  the 
girl's  folly." 

"  Eesponsibility !  May  that  never  be ! "  ex 
claimed  the  artist,  in  the  common  Italian  phrase, 
but  with  a  little  irony.  "But  as  for  the  respon 
sibility,  I  do  not  know  whose  it  was.  It  was  cer 
tainly  not  I  who  invited  the  young  lady  to  go  up 
the  ladder." 

"Well,  it  was  her  fault.  Besides,  the  absent 
are  always  wrong.  But  she  is  handsome,  is  she 
not  ?  " 

Reanda  shrugged  his  thin  shoulders,  and  looked 
critically  at  his  hands,  which  were  smeared  with 
paint. 

"Very  handsome,"  he  said  indifferently.  "But 
it  is  a  beauty  that  says  nothing  to  me.  One  must 
be  young  to  like  that  kind  of  beauty.  She  is  a 
beautiful  storm,  that  young  lady.  For  one  who 
seeks  peace  —  "  He  shrugged  his  shoulders  again. 
"And  then,  her  manners!  I  do  not  understand 
English,  but  I  knoAV  that  her  father  was  telling 
her  to  come  down,  and  yet  she  went  up.  I  do  not 


270  CASA    BBACCIO. 

know  what  education  these  foreigners  have.  In 
struction,  yes,  as  much  as  you  please ;  but  educa 
tion,  no.  They  have  no  more  than  barbarians. 
The  father  says,  '  You  must  not  do  that.'  And 
the  daughter  does  it.  What  education  is  that? 
Of  course,  if  they  were  friends  of  yours,  I  should 
not  say  it." 

"Nevertheless  that  girl  is  very  handsome,"  in 
sisted  Francesca.  "She  has  the  Venetian  colour 
ing.  Titian  would  have  painted  her  just  as  she  is, 
without  changing  anything." 

"  Beauty,  beauty ! "  exclaimed  Reanda,  impa 
tiently.  "  Of  course,  it  is  beauty !  Food  for  the 
brush,  that  says  nothing  to  the  heart.  The  devil 
can  also  take  the  shape  of  a  beautiful  woman. 
That  is  it.  There  is  something  in  that  young 
lady's  face  —  how  shall  I  say?  It  pleases  me  — 
little !  You  must  forgive  me,  princess.  My 
nerves  are  shaken.  Divine  goodness !  To  see  a 
young  girl  flying  through  the  air  like  Simon 
Magus !  It  was  enough ! " 

Francesca  laughed  gently.  Keanda  shook  his 
head  with  slow  disapprobation,  and  frowned. 

"I  say  the  truth,"  he  said.  "There  is  some 
thing —  I  cannot  explain.  But  I  can  show  you," 
he  added  quickly. 

He  took  up  his  palette  and  brushes  from  the 
chair  on  which  they  lay,  and  reached  the  white 
plastered  wall  in  two  steps. 


CAS  A    BEACCIO.  271 

"Paint  her,"  said  Francesca,  to  encourage  him. 

"  Yes,  I  will  show  her  to  you  —  as  I  think  she 
is,"  he  answered. 

He  closed  his  eyes  for  a  moment,  calling  up  the 
image  before  him,  then  went  back  to  the  chair  and 
took  a  quantity  of  colour  from  a  tube  which  lay, 
with  half-a-dozen  others,  in  the  hollow  of  the  rush 
seat.  They  were  not  the  colours  he  used  for  fresco- 
painting,  but  had  been  left  there  when  he  had 
made  a  sketch  of  a  head  two  or  three  days  pre 
viously.  In  a  moment  he  was  before  the  wall 
again.  It  was  roughly  plastered  from  the  floor  to 
the  lower  line  of  the  frescoes.  With  a  long,  coarse 
brush  he  began  to  sketch  a  gigantic  head  of  a 
woman.  The  oil  paint  lay  well  on  the  rough,  dry 
surface.  He  worked  in  great  strokes  at  the  full 
length  of  his  arm. 

"  Make  her  beautiful,  at  least,"  said  Francesca, 
watching  him. 

"  Oh,  yes  —  very  beautiful,"  he  answered. 

He  worked  rapidly  for  a  few  minutes,  smiling, 
as  his  hand  moved,  but  not  pleasantly.  Francesca 
thought  there  was  an  evil  look  in  his  face  which 
she  had  never  seen  there  before,  and  that  his  smile 
was  wicked  and  spiteful. 

"  But  you  are  painting  a  sunset ! "  she  cried 
suddenly. 

"  A  sunset  ?  That  is  her  hair.  It  is  red,  and 
she  has  much  of  it.  Wait  a  little." 


272  CASA    BBACCIO. 

And  he  went  on.  It  was  certainly  something 
like  a  sunset,  the  bright,  waving  streamers  of  the 
clouds  flying  far  to  right  and  left,  and  blending 
away  to  the  neutral  tint  of  the  dry  plaster  as 
though  to  a  grey  sky. 

"Yes,  but  it  is  still  a  sunset,"  said  Francesca. 
"  I  have  seen  it  like  that  from  the  Campagna  in 
winter." 

"She  is  not  'Gloria'  for  nothing,"  answered 
Reanda.  "I  am  making  her  glorious^  You  shall 
see." 

Suddenly,  with  another  tone,  he  brought  out  the 
main  features  of  the  striking  face,  by  throwing  in 
strong  shadows  from  the  flaming  hair.  Francesca 
became  more  interested.  The  head  was  colossal, 
extraordinary,  almost  unearthly;  the  expression 
was  strange. 

"  What  a  monster ! "  exclaimed  Francesca  at  last, 
as  he  stood  aside,  still  touching  the  enormous 
sketch  here  and  there  with  his  long  brush,  at 
arm's  length.  "It  is  terrible,"  she  added,  in  a 
lower  tone. 

"Truth  is  always  terrible,"  answered  Eeanda. 
"  But  you  cannot  say  that  it  is  not  like  her." 

"  Horribly  like.     It  is  diabolical ! " 

"  And  yet  it  is  a  beautiful  head,"  said  the  artist. 
"Perhaps  you  are  too  near."  He  himself  crossed 
the  hall,  and  then  turned  round  to  look  at  his 
work.  "It  is  better  from  here,"  he  said.  "Will 
you  come  ?  " 


CASA    BRACCIO.  273 

She  went  to  his  side.  The  huge  face  and  wildly 
streaming  hair  stood  out  as  though  in  three  dimen 
sions  from  the  wall.  The  great,  strong  mouth 
smiled  at  her  with  a  smile  that  was  at  once  evil 
and  sad  and  fatal.  The  strange  eyes  looked  her 
through  and  through  from  beneath  the  vast  brow. 

"  It  is  diabolical,  satanical ! "  she  responded, 
under  her  breath. 

Eeanda  still  smiled  wickedly  and  watched  her. 
The  face  seemed  to  grow  and  grow  till  it  filled  the 
whole  range  of  vision.  The  dark  eyes  flashed; 
the  lips  trembled;  the  flaming  hair  quivered  and 
waved  and  curled  up  like  snakes  that  darted 
hither  and  thither.  Yet  it  was  horribly  like 
Gloria,  and  the  fresh,  rich  oil  colours  gave  it  her 
startling  and  vivid  brilliancy. 
.  It  was  the  sudden  and  enormous  expression  of  a 
man  of  genius,  strung  and  stung,  till  irritation  had 
to  find  its  explosion  through  the  one  art  of  which 
he  was  absolute  master — in  a  fearful  caricature 
exaggerating  beauty  itself  to  the  bounds  of  the 
devilish. 

"  I  cannot  bear  it ! "  cried  Francesca. 

She  snatched  the  big  brush  from  his  hand,  and, 
running  lightly  across  the  room,  dashed  the  colour 
left  in  it  across  the  face  in  all  directions,  over  the 
eyes  and  the  mouth,  and  through  the  long  red 
hair.  In  ten  seconds  nothing  remained  but  con 
fused  daubs  and  splashes  of  brilliant  paint. 

TOL.  I. T 


274  CASA   BBACCIO. 

"  There ! "  cried  Francesca.  "  And  I  wish  I  had 
never  seen  it ! " 

Still  holding  the  brush  in  her  hand,  she  turned 
her  back  to  the  obliterated  sketch  and  faced  Reanda, 
•with  a  look  of  girlish  defiance  and  satisfaction.  His 
face  was  grave  now,  but  he  seemed  pleased  with 
what  he  had  done. 

"  It  makes  no  difference,"  he  said.  "  You  will 
never  forget  it." 

He  felt  that  he  was  revenged  for  the  smile  she 
had  bestowed  upon  his  apparent  surprise  at  Gloria's 
beauty,  when  she  had  followed  the  girl  into  the 
hall,  and  had  seen  him  start.  He  could  not  con 
ceal  his  triumph. 

"That  is  the  young  lady  whom  you  thought  I 
might  wish  to  marry,"  he  said.  ''You  know  me 
little  after  so  many  years,  Donna  Francesca.  You 
have  bestowed  much  kindness  upon  a  man  whom 
you  do  not  know." 

"My  dear  Reanda,  who  can  understand  you? 
But  as  for  kindness,  do  not  let  me  hear  the  word 
between  you  and  me.  It  has  no  meaning.  We  are 
always  good  friends,  as  we  were  when  I  was  a  little 
girl  and  used  to  play  with  your  paints.  You  have 
given  me  far  more  than  I  can  ever  repay  you  for, 
in  your  works.  I  do  not  flatter  you,  my  friend. 
Cupid  and  Psyche,  there  in  your  frescoes,  will  out 
live  me  and  be  famous  when  I  am  forgotten  —  yet 
they  are  mine,  are  they  not  ?  And  you  gave  them 
to  me." 


CASA    BRACCIO.  275 

The  sweet  young  face  turned  to  him  with  an  un 
affected,  grateful  smile.  His  sad  features  softened 
all  at  once. 

"Ah,  Donna  Francesca,"  he  said  gently,  "you 
have  given  me  something  better  than  Cupid  and 
Psyche,  for  your  gift  will  live  forever  in  heaven." 

She  looked  thoughtfully  into  his  eyes,  but  with 
a  sort  of  question  in  her  own. 

"Your  dear  friendship,"  he  added,  bending  his 
head  a  little.  Then  he  laughed  suddenly.  "Do 
not  give  me  a  wife,"  he  concluded. 

"And  you,  Eeanda  —  do  not  make  wicked  cari 
catures  of  women  you  have  only  seen  once !  Be 
sides,  I  go  back  to  it  again.  I  saw  you  start  when 
she  passed  you  at  the  door.  You  were  surprised 
at  her  beauty.  You  must  admit  that.  And  then, 
because  you  are  irritated  with  her,  you  take  a 
brush  and  daub  that  monstrous  thing  upon  the 
wall !  It  is  a  shame ! " 

"  I  started,  yes.  It  was  not  because  she  struck 
me  as  beautiful.  It  was  something  much  more 
strange.  Do  you  know  ?  She  is  the  very  portrait 
of  Donna  Maria,  who  was  in  the  Carmelite  convent 
at  Subiaco,  and  who  was  burned  to  death.  I  have 
often  told  you  that  I  remembered  having  seen  her 
when  I  was  a  boy,  both  at  Gerano  and  at  the 
Palazzo  Braccio,  before  she  took  the  veil.  There  is  a 
little  difference  in  the  colouring,  I  think,  and  much 
in  the  expression.  But  the  rest — it  is  the  image!" 


276  CASA    BRACCIO. 

Francesca,  who  could  not  remember  her  ill-fated 
kinswoman,  was  not  much  impressed  by  Reanda's 
statement. 

"It  makes  your  caricature  all  the  worse,"  she 
answered,  "since  it  was  also  a  caricature  of  that 
holy  woman.  As  for  the  resemblance,  after  all 
these  years,  it  is  a  mere  impression.  Who  knows  ? 
It  may  be.  There  is  no  portrait  of  Sister  Maria 
Addolorata." 

"  Oh,  but  I  remember  well ! "  insisted  Eeanda. 

"  Well,  it  concludes  nothing,  after  all,"  returned 
Francesca,  with  much  logic.  "  It  does  not  make  a 
fiend  of  the  poor  nun,  who  is  an  angel  by  this  time, 
and  it  does  not  make  Miss  Dalrymple  less  beau 
tiful.  And  now,  Signor  Painter,"  she  added,  with 
another  girlish  laugh,  "if  we  have  quarrelled  enough 
to  restore  your  nerves,  I  am  going  out.  It  is  almost 
dark,  and  I  have  to  go  to  the  Austrian  Embassy 
before  dinner,  and  the  carriage  has  been  waiting 
for  an  hour." 

"You,  princess ! "  exclaimed  Eeanda,  in  surprise ; 
for  she  had  not  begun  to  go  into  the  world  yet  since 
her  husband's  death. 

"It  is  not  a  reception.  We  are  to  meet  there 
about  arranging  another  of  those  charity  concerts 
for  the  deaf  and  dumb." 

"I  might  have  known,"  answered  the  painter. 
"As  for  me,  I  shall  go  to  the  theatre  to-night. 
There  is  the  Trovatore." 


CASA    BEACCIO.  277 

"That  is  a  new  thing  for  you,  too.  But  I  am 
glad.  Amuse  yourself,  and  tell  me  about  the  sing 
ing  to-morrow.  Remember  to  lock  the  door  and 
take  the  key.  I  do  not  trust  the  masons  in  the 
morning." 

"  Do  I  ever  forget  ?  "  asked  Reanda.  "  But  I 
will  lock  it  now,  as  you  go  out ;  for  it  is  late,  and 
I  shall  go  upstairs." 

"Good  night,"  said  Francesca,  as  she  turned  to 
leave  the  room. 

"  And  you  forgive  the  caricature  ?  "  asked  Re 
anda,  holding  the  door  open  for  her  to  pass. 

"I  would  forgive  you  many  things,"  she  an 
swered,  smiling  as  she  went  by. 


CHAPTEK  XXI. 

IN~  those  days  the  Trovatore  was  not  an  old- 
fashioned  opera.  It  was  not  '  threshed-out,'  to 
borrow  the  vigorous  German  phrase.  Wagner 
had  not  eclipsed  melody  with  'tone-poetry/  nor 
made  men  feel  more  than  they  could  hear.  Many 
of  the  great  things  of  this  century -ending  had  not 
been  done  then,  nor  even  dreamed  of,  and  even 
musicians  listened  to  the  Trovatore  with  pleasure, 
not  dreaming  of  the  untried  strength  that  lay  wait 
ing  in  Verdi's  vast  reserve.  It  was  then  the 
music  of  youth.  To  us  it  seems  but  the  music  of 
childhood.  Many  of  us  cannot  listen  to  Manrico's 
death-song  from  the  tower  without  hearing  the 
grind-organ  upon  which  its  passion  has  grown  so 
pathetically  poor.  But  one  could  understand  that 
music.  The  mere  statement  that  it  was  compre^ 
hensible  raises  a  smile  to-day.  It  appealed  to  sim 
ple  feelings.  We  are  no  longer  satisfied  with  such 
simplicity,  and  even  long  for  powers  that  do  not 
appeal,  but  twist  us  with  something  stronger  than 
our  hardened  selves,  until  we  ourselves  appeal  to 
the  unknown,  in  a  sort  of  despairing  ecstasy  of 
unsatisfied  delight,  asking  of  possibility  to  stretch 
itself  out  to  the  impossible.  We  are  in  a  strange 
278 


CAS  A    BEACCIO.  279 

phase  of  development.  We  see  the  elaborately 
artificial  world-scape  painted  by  Science  on  the 
curtain  close  before  our  eyes,  but  our  restless 
hands  are  thrust  through  it  and  beyond,  opening 
eagerly  and  shutting  on  nothing,  though  we  know 
that  something  is  there. 

Angelo  Reanda  was  passionately  fond  of  what 
was  called  music  in  Italy  more  than  thirty  years 
ago.  He  had  the  true  ear  and  the  facile  memory 
for  melody  common  to  Italians,  who  are  a  singing 
people,  if  not  a  musical  race,  and  which  constituted 
a  talent  for  music  when  music  was  considered  to 
be  a  succession  of  sounds  rather  than  a  series  of 
sensuous  impressions.  He  could  listen  to  an  opera, 
understand  it  without  thought,  enjoy  it  simply,  and 
remember'  it  without  difficulty,  like  thousands  of 
other  Romans.  Most  of  us  would  willingly  go  back 
to  such  childlike  amusements  if  we  could.  A  few 
possess  the  power  even  now,  and  are  looked  upon 
with  friendly  contempt  by  their  more  cultured,  and 
therefore  more  tortured,  musical  acquaintances, 
whose  dream  it  is  to  be  torn  to  very  rags  in  the 
delirium  of  orchestral  passion. 

Reanda  went  to  the  Apollo  Theatre  in  search  of 
merely  pleasurable  sensations,  and  he  got  exactly 
what  he  wanted.  The  old  house  was  brilliant  even 
in  those  days,  less  with  light  than  with  jewels,  it 
is  true,  but  perhaps  that  illumination  was  as  good 
as  any  other.  The  Roman  ladies  and  the  ladies 


280  CASA   BBACCIO. 

of  the  great  embassies  used  then  to  sit  through 
the  whole  evening  in  their  boxes,  and  it  was  the 
privilege,  as  it  is  still  in  Home,  of  the  men  in 
the  stalls  and  pit  to  stand  up  between  the  acts 
and  admire  them  and  their  diamonds  as  much  as 
they  pleased.  The  light  was  dim  enough,  com 
pared  with  what  we  have  nowadays ;  for  gas  was 
but  just  introduced  in  a  few  of  the  principal  streets, 
and  the  lamps  in  the  huge  chandelier  at  the  Apollo, 
and  in  the  brackets  around  the  house,  were  filled 
with  the  olive  oil  which  to-day  dresses  the  world's 
salad.  But  it  was  a  soft  warm  light,  with  rich 
yellow  in  it,  which  penetrated  the  shadows  and 
beautified  all  it  touched. 

Reanda,  like  the  others,  stood  up  and  looked 
about  him  after  the  first  act.  His  eyes*  were  in 
stantly  arrested  by  Gloria's  splendid  hair,  which 
caught  the  light  from  above.  She  was  seated  in 
the  front  of  a  box  on  the  third  tier,  the  second  row 
of  boxes  being  almost  exclusively  reserved  in  those 
days.  Dalrymple  was  beside  his  daughter,  and 
the  dark,  still  face  of  Paul  Griggs  was  just  visible 
in  the  shadow. 

Gloria  saw  the  artist  almost  immediately,  for  he 
could  not  help  looking  at  her  curiously,  comparing 
her  face  with  the  mad  sketch  he  had  made  on  the 
wall.  She  nodded  to  him,  and  then  spoke  to  her 
father,  evidently  calling  his  attention  to  Reanda, 
for  Dalrymple  looked  down  at  once,  and  also 


CAS  A   BBACCIO.  281 

nodded,  while  Griggs  leaned  forward  a  little  and 
stared  vacantly  into  the  pit. 

"  It  is  an  obsession  to-day,"  said  Reanda  to  him 
self,  reflecting  that  though  the  girl  lived  in  Rome 
he  had  never  noticed  her  before,  and  had  now  seen 
her  twice  on  the  same  day. 

He  mentally  added  the  reflexion  that  she  must 
have  good  nerves,  and  that  most  young  girls  would 
be  at  home  with  a  headache  after  such  a  narrow 
escape  as  hers.  She  was  quite  as  handsome  as  he 
had  thought,  however,  and  even  more  so,  now  that 
he  saw  her  in  her  girlish  evening  gown,  which  was 
just  a  little  open  at  the  throat,  and  without  even 
the  simplest  of  ornaments.  The  white  material 
and  the  shadow  around  and  behind  her  threw  her 
head  into  strong  relief. 

The  curtain  went  up  again,  and  Reanda  sat  down 
and  watched  the  performance  and  listened  to  the 
simple,  stirring  melodies.  But  he  was  uncomfort 
ably  conscious  that  Gloria  was  looking  at  the  back 
of  his  head  from  her  box.  Nervous  people  know 
the  unpleasant  sensation  which  such  a  delusion  can 
produce.  Reanda  moved  uneasily  in  his  seat,  and 
looked  round  more  than  once,  just  far  enough  to 
catch  sight  of  Gloria's  hair  without  looking  up  into 
her  eyes. 

His  thoughts  were  disturbed,  and  he  recalled 
vividly  the  face  of  the  dead  nun,  which  he  had 
seen  long  ago.  The  resemblance  was  certainly 


282  CASA   BEACC1O. 

strong.  Maria  Addolorata  had  sometimes  had  a 
strange  expression  which  was  quite  her  own,  and 
which  he  had  not  yet  seen  in  Gloria.  But  he  felt 
that  he  should  see  it  some  day.  He  was  sure  of  it, 
so  sure  that  he  had  thrown  its  full  force  into  the 
sketch  on  the  wall,  knowing  that  it  would  startle 
Donna  Francesca.  It  was  not  possible  that  two 
women  should  be  so  much  alike  and  yet  that  one 
of  them  should  never  have  that  look.  Perhaps 
Gloria  had  it  now  and  was  staring  at  the  back  of 
his  head. 

An  unaccountable  nervousness  took  possession 
of  the  sensitive  man,  and  he  suffered  as  he  sat 
there.  After  the  curtain  dropped  he  rose  and 
left  the  theatre  without  looking  up,  and  crossed 
the  narrow  street  to  a  little  coffee  shop  familiar 
to  him  for  many  years.  He  drank  a  cup  of 
coffee,  broke  off  the  end  of  a  thin  black  Roman 
cigar,  and  smoked  for  a  few  minutes  before  he 
returned. 

Gloria  had  not  moved,  but  Griggs  was  either 
gone  or  had  retired  further  back  into  the  shadow. 
Dalrymple  was  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  bony  and 
haggard,  one  of  his  great  hands  hanging  listlessly 
over  the  front  of  the  box.  Reanda  sat  down  again, 
and  determined  that  he  would  not  turn  round  be 
fore  the  end  of  the  act.  But  it  was  of  no  use.  He 
irritated  his  neighbours  on  each  side  by  his  rest 
lessness,  and  his  forehead  was  moist  as  though  he 


CAS  A   BRACCIO.  283 

were  suffering  great  pain.  Again  he  faced  about 
and  stared  upwards  at  the  box.  Gloria,  to  his  sur 
prise,  was  not  looking  at  him,  but  in  the  shadow 
he  met  the  inscrutable  eyes  of  Paul  Griggs,  fixed 
upon  him  as  though  they  would  never  look  away. 
But  he  cared  very  little  -whether  Griggs  looked  at 
him  or  not.  He  faced  the  stage  again  and  was 
more  quiet. 

It  was  a  good  performance,  and  he  began  to  be 
glad  that  he  had  come.  The  singers  were  young, 
the  audience  was  inclined  to  applaud,  and  every 
thing  went  smoothly.  Eeanda  thought  the  soprano 
rather  weak  in  the  great  tower  scene. 

"  Calpesta  il  mio  cadavere,  ma  salva  il  Trovator  !  " 

she  sang  in  great  ascending  intervals. 

Eeanda  sighed,  for  she  made  no  impression  on 
him,  and  he  remembered  that  he  had  been  deeply 
impressed,  even  thrilled,  when  he  had  first  heard 
the  phrase.  He  had  realized  the  situation  then 
and  had  felt  with  Leonora.  Perhaps  he  had  grown 
too  old  to  feel  that  sort  of  young  emotion  any 
more.  He  sighed  regretfully  as  he  rose  from  his 
seat.  Looking  up  once  more,  he  saw  that  Gloria 
was  putting  on  her  cloak,  her  back  turned  to  the 
theatre.  He  waited  a  moment  and  then  moved  on 
with  the  crowd,  to  get  his  coat  from  the  cloak 
room. 

He  went  out  and  walked  slowly  up  the  Via  di 


284  CAS  A    BRACCIO. 

Tordinona.  It  was  a  dark  and  narrow  street  in 
those  days.  The  great  old-fashioned  lanterns  were 
swung  up  with  their  oil  lamps  in  them,  by  long 
levers  held  in  place  by  chains  locked  to  the  wall. 
Here  and  there  over  a  low  door  a  red  light  showed 
that  wine  was  sold  in  a  basement  which  was  almost 
a  cellar.  The  crowd  from  the  theatre  hurried  along 
close  by  the  walls,  in  constant  danger  from  the  big 
coaches  that  dashed  past,  bringing  the  Roman 
ladies  home,  for  all  had  to  pass  through  that 
narrow  street.  Landaus  were  not  yet  invented, 
and  the  heavy  carriages  rumbled  loudly  through 
the  darkness,  over  the  small  paving-stones.  But 
the  people  on  foot  were  used  to  them,  and  stood 
pressed  against  the  walls  as  they  went  by,  or 
grouped  for  a  moment  on  the  low  doorsteps  of  the 
dark  houses. 

Reanda  went  with  the  rest.  He  might  have 
gone  the  other  way,  by  the  Banchi  Vecchi,  from 
the  bridge  of  Sant'  Angelo,  and  it  would  have  been 
nearer,  but  he  had  a  curious  fancy  that  the  Dal- 
rymples  might  walk  home,  and  that  he  might  see 
Gloria  again.  Though  it  was  not  yet  winter,  the 
night  was  bright  and  cold,  and  it  was  pleasant  to 
walk.  The  regular  season  at  the  Apollo  Theatre 
did  not  begin  until  Christmas,  but  there  were  often 
good  companies  there  at  other  times  of  the  year. 

The  artist  walked  on,  glancing  at  the  groups  he 
passed  in  the  dim  street,  but  neither  pausing  nor 


CASA    BEACCIO.  285 

hurrying.     He  meant  to  let  fate  have  her  own  way 
with  him  that  night. 

Fate  was  not  far  off.  He  had  gone  on  some  dis 
tance,  and  the  crowd  had  dispersed  in  various 
directions,  till  he  was  almost  alone  as  he  emerged 
into  the  open  space  where  the  Via  del  Clementino 
intersects  the  Blpetta.  At  that  moment  he  heard 
a  wild  and  thrilling  burst  of  song. 

"  Calpesta  il  mio  cadavere,  ma  salva  il  Trovator !  " 

The  great  soprano  rang  out  upon  the  midnight 
silence,  like  the  voice  of  a  despairing  archangel, 
and  there  was  nothing  more. 

"  Hush ! "  exclaimed  a  man's  voice  energetically. 

Two  or  three  windows  were  opened  high  up,  for 
no  one  had  ever  heard  such  a  woman's  voice  in  the 
streets  before.  Reanda  peered  before  him  through 
the  gloom,  saw  three  people  standing  at  the  next 
corner,  and  hastened  his  long  steps.  An  instinct 
he  could  not  explain  told  him  that  Gloria  had  sung 
the  short  strain,  which  had  left  him  cold  and  indif 
ferent  when  he  had  heard  it  in  the  theatre.  He 
was  neither  now,  and  he  was  possessed  by  the 
desire  to  be  sure  that  it  had  been  she. 

He  was  -not  mistaken.  G-riggs  had  recognized 
him  first,  and  they  had  waited  for  him  at  the 
corner. 

"  It  is  an  unexpected  pleasure  to  meet  twice  in 
the  same  day,"  said  Eeanda. 


286  CASA    BKACCIO. 

"  The  pleasure  is  ours,"  answered  Dalrymple,  in 
the  correct  phrase,  but  with  his  peculiar  accent. 
"I  suppose  you  heard  my  daughter's  screams,"  he 
added  drily.  "  She  was  explaining  to  us  how  a 
particular  phrase  should  be  sung." 

"  Was  I  not  right  ?  "  asked  Gloria,  quickly  ap 
pealing  to  Keanda  with  the  certainty  of  support. 

"  A  thousand  times  right,"  he  answered.  "  How 
could  one  be  wrong  with  such  a  voice  ?  " 

Gloria  was  pleased,  and  they  all  walked  on  to 
gether  till  they  reached  the  door  of  Dalrymple's 
lodging. 

"  Come  in  and  have  supper  with  us,"  said  the 
Scotchman,  who  seemed  to  be  less  gloomy  than 
usual.  "  I  suppose  you  live  in  our  neighbourhood  ?  " 

"  No.     In  the  Palazzetto  Borgia,  where  I  work." 

"  This  is  not  exactly  on  your  way  home,  then," 
observed  Gloria.  "  You  may  as  well  rest  and 
refresh  yourself." 

Reanda  accepted  the  invitation,  wondering  in 
wardly  at  the  assurance  of  the  foreign  girl.  With 
her  Italian  speech  she  should  have  had  Italian 
manners,  he  thought.  The  three  men  all  carried 
tapers,  as  was  then  customary,  and  they  all  lit  them 
before  they  ascended  the  dark  staircase. 

"  This  is  an  illumination,"  said  Dalrymple,  look 
ing  back  as  he  led  the  way. 

Gloria  stopped  suddenly,  and  looked  round. 
She  was  following  her  father,  and  Reanda  came 
after  her,  Griggs  being  the  last. 


CAS  A   BRACCIO.  287 

"  One,  two,  three,"  she  counted,  and  her  eyes 
met  Eeanda's. 

Without  the  slightest  hesitation,  she  blew  out 
the  taper  he  held  in  his  hand.  But,  for  one  instant, 
he  had  seen  in  her  face  the  expression  of  the  dead 
nun,  distinct  in  the  clear  light,  and  close  to  his 
eyes. 

"  Why  did  you  do  that  ?  "  asked  Dalrymple,  who 
had  turned  his  head  again,  as  the  taper  was 
extinguished. 

"  Three  lights  mean  death,"  said  Gloria,  prompt 
ly  ;  and  she  laughed,  as  she  went  quickly  up  the 
steps. 

"It  is  true,"  answered  Eeanda,  in  a  low  voice, 
as  he  followed  her ;  and  it  occurred  to  him  that  in 
a  flash  he  had  seen  death  written  in  the  brilliant 
young  face. 

Ten  minutes  later,  they  were  seated  around  the 
table  in  the  Dalrymples'  small  dining-room.  Re- 
anda  noticed  that  everything  he  saw  there  evi 
dently  belonged  to  the  hired  lodging,  from  the 
old-fashioned  Italian  silver  forks,  battered  and 
crooked  at  the  prongs,  to  the  heavy  cut-glass  de 
canters,  stained  with  age  and  use,  at  the  neck, 
and  between  the  diamond-shaped  cuttings.  There 
was  supper  enough  for  half-a-dozen  people,  how 
ever,  and  an  extraordinary  quantity  of  wine. 
Dalrymple  swallowed  a  big  tumbler  of  it  before 
he  ate  anything.  Paul  Griggs  filled  his  glass  to 


288  CAS  A   BEACCIO. 

the  brim,  and  looked  at  it.  He  had  hardly  spoken 
since  Reanda  had  joined  the  party. 

The  artist  made  an  effort  to  be  agreeable,  feeling 
that  the  invitation  had  been  a  very  friendly  one, 
considering  the  slight  acquaintance  he  had  with 
the  Dalrymples,  an  acquaintance  not  yet  twenty- 
four  hours  old.  Presently  he  asked  Gloria  if  she 
had  felt  no  ill  effects  from  her  extraordinary  acci 
dent  in  the  afternoon. 

"I  had  not  thought  about  it  again,"  she  an 
swered.  "  I  have  thought  of  nothing  but  your 
painting  all  the  evening,  until  that  woman  sang 
that  phrase  as  though  she  were  asking  the  Conte  di 
Luna  for  more  strawberries  and  cream." 

She  laughed,  but  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  his  face. 

"  '  Tin  altro  po'  di  fravole,  e  dammi  crema  ancor,'  " 

she  sang  softly,  in  the  Roman  dialect. 

Then  she  laughed  again,  and  Reanda  smiled  at 
the  absurd  words  —  "A  few  more  strawberries, 
and  give  me  some  more  cream."  But  even  the 
few  notes,  a  lazy  parody  of  the  prima  donna's 
singing  of  the  phrase,  charmed  his  simple  love  of 
melody. 

"  Don't  look  so  grim,  papa,"  she  said  in  English. 
"  Nobody  can  hear  me  here,  you  know." 

"I  should  not  think  anybody  would  wish  to," 
answered  the  Scotchman ;  but  he  spoke  in  Italian, 
in  consideration  of  his  guest,  who  did  not  under 
stand  English. 


CAS  A    BEACCIO.  289 

"  I  do  not  know  why  you  are  always  so  angry 
if  I  sing  anything  foolish,"  said  the  young  girl, 
going  back  to  Italian.  "  One  cannot  be  always 
serious.  But  I  was  talking  about  your  frescoes, 
Signor  Reanda.  I  have  thought  of  nothing  else." 

Again  her  eyes  met  the  artist's,  but  fell  before 
his.  He  was  too  great  a  painter  not  to  know  the 
value  of  such  flattering  speeches  in  general,  and 
in  a  way  he  was  inclined  to  resent  the  girl's  bold 
ness.  But  at  the  same  time,  it  was  hard  to  believe 
that  she  was  not  really  in  earnest,  for  she  had  that 
power  of  sudden  gravity  which  lends  great  weight 
to  little  speeches.  In  spite  of  himself,  and  per 
haps  rightly,  he  believed  her.  Paul  Griggs  did 
not,  and  he  watched  her  curiously. 

"  Why  do  you  look  at  me  like  that  ?  "  she  asked, 
turning  upon  him  with  a  little  show  of  temper. 

"  If  your  father  will  allow  me  to  say  so,  you  are 
the  object  most  worth  looking  at  in  the  room," 
answered  the  young  man,  calmly. 

"You  will  make  her  vain  with  your  pretty 
speeches,  Griggs,"  said  Dalrymple. 

"  I  doubt  that,"  answered  Griggs. 

He  relapsed  into  silence,  and  drained  a  big  tum 
bler  of  wine.  Reanda  suspected,  with  a  shrewd 
intuition,  that  the  American  admired  Gloria,  but 
that  she  did  not  like  him  much. 

"Miss  Dalrymple  is  doing  her  best  to  make  me 
vain  with  her  praise,"  said  Reanda. 

VOL.   I.  —  V 


290  CAS  A   BBACCIO. 

"I  never  flattered  any  one  in  my  life,"  answered 
Gloria.  "Signer  Reanda  is  the  greatest  painter 
in  Italy.  Everybody  says  so.  It  would  be  foolish 
of  me  to  even  pretend  that  after  seeing  him  at 
work  I  had  thought  of  anything  else.  We  have 
all  said,  this  evening,  that  the  frescoes  were  won 
derful,  and  that  no  one,  not  even  Eaphael,  who 
did  the  same  thing,  has  ever  had  a  more  beautiful 
idea  of  the  history  of  Cupid  and  Psyche.  Why 
should  we  not  tell  the  truth,  just  because  he 
happens  to  be  here  ?  How  illogical  you  are ! " 

"I  believe  I  excepted  Eaphael,"  said  Dalrymple, 
with  his  national  accuracy.  "  But  Signer  Reanda 
will  not  quarrel  with  me  on  that  account,  I  am 
sure." 

"  But  I  did  not  except  Raphael,  nor  any  one," 
persisted  Gloria,  before  Reanda  could  speak. 

"Really,  Signorina,  though  I  am  mortal  and 
susceptible,  you  go  a  little  too  far.  Flattery  is 
not  appreciation,  you  know." 

"  It  is  not  flattery,"  she  answered,  and  the  colour 
rose  in  her  face.  "  I  am  quite  in  earnest.  Xobody 
ever  painted  anything  better  than. your  Cupid  and 
Psyche.  Raphael's  is  dull  and  uninteresting  com 
pared  with  it." 

"  I  blush,  but  I  cannot  accept  so  much,"  said  the 
Italian,  smiling  politely,  but  still  trying  to  discover 
whether  she  meant  what  she  said  or  not. 

In  spite  of  himself,  as  before,  he  continued  to 


CA8A   BRACCIO.  291 

believe  her,  though  his  judgment  told  him  that 
hers  could  not  be  worth  much.  But  he  was  pleased 
to  have  made  such  an  impression,  and  by  quick 
degrees  his  prejudice  against  her  began  to  disap 
pear.  What  had  seemed  like  boldness  in  her  no 
longer  shocked  him,  and  he  described  it  to  himself 
as  the  innocent  frankness  of  a  foreign  girl.  It 
was  not  possible  that  any  one  so  like  the  dead 
Maria  Braccio  could  be  vulgar  or  bold.  From 
that  moment  he  began  to  rank  Gloria  as  belonging 
to  the  higher  sphere  from  which  his  birth  excluded 
him.  It  was  a  curious  and  quick  transition,  and 
he  would  not  have  admitted  that  it  was  due  to 
her  exaggerated  praise  of  his  work.  Strange  as 
it  must  seem  to  those  not  familiar  with  the  almost 
impassable  barriers  of  old  Italian  society,  Reanda 
had  that  evening,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  the 
sensation  of  being  liked,  admired,  and  talked  with 
by  a  woman  of  Francesca  Campodonico's  class; 
stranger  still,  it  was  one  of  the  most  delicious 
sensations  he  had  ever  experienced.  Yet  the 
woman  in  question  was  but  a  girl  not  yet  seven 
teen  years  old.  Before  he  rose  to  go  home,  he 
unconsciously  resented  Griggs's  silent  admiration 
for  Gloria.  To  the  average  Italian,  such  silence 
is  a  sign  that  a  man  is  in  love,  and  Reanda  was 
the  more  attracted  to  Gloria  because  she  treated 
Griggs  with  such  perfect  indifference. 
It  was  nearly  one  o'clock  when  he  lighted  his 


292  CAS  A   BRACCIO. 

taper  to  descend  the  stairs.  Griggs  was  also  ready 
to  go.  It  was  a  relief  to  know  that  he  was  not 
going  to  stay  behind  and  talk  with  Gloria.  They 
went  down  in  silence. 

"I  wanted  to  ask  you  a  question,"  said  the 
American,  as  they  caine  out  upon  the  street,  and 
blew  out  their  tapers.  "  We  live'  in  opposite  direc 
tions,  so  I  must  ask  it  now.  Should  you  mind,  if 
I  wrote  an  article  on  your  frescoes  for  a  London 
paper  ?  " 

"  Mind ! "  exclaimed  the  artist,  with  a  sudden 
revulsion  of  feeling  in  favour  of  the  journalist. 
"I  should  be  delighted  —  flattered." 

"No,"  said  Griggs,  coldly.  "I  shall  not  write 
as  Miss  Dalrymple  talks.  But  I  shall  try  and  do 
you  justice,  and  that  is  a  good  deal,  when  one  is 
a  serious  artist,  as  you  are." 

Reanda  was  struck  by  the  cool  moderation  of 
the  words,  which  expressed  his  own  modest  judg 
ment  of  himself  almost  too  exactly  to  be  agreeable 
after  Gloria's  unlimited  praise.  He  thanked  Griggs 
warmly,  however,  and  they  shook  hands  before 
they  parted. 


CHAPTEE   XXII. 

THREE  months  passed,  and  Reanda  was  intimate 
with  the  Dalrymples.  It  was  natural  enough, 
considering  the  circumstances.  They  lived  much 
alone,  and  Reanda  was  like  them  in  this  respect, 
for  he  rarely  went  where  he  was  obliged  to  talk. 
During  the  day  he  saw  much  of  Donna  Francesca, 
but  when  it  grew  dark  in  the  early  afternoons  of 
midwinter,  the  artist  was  thrown  upon  his  own 
resources.  In  former  years  he  had  now  and  then 
done  as  many  of  the  other  artists  did,  and  had  some 
times  for  a  month  or  two  spent  most  of  his  evenings 
at  the  eating-house  where  he  dined,  in  company  with 
half-a-dozen  others  who  frequented  the  same  estab 
lishment.  Each  dropped  in,  at  any  hour  that 
chanced  to  suit  him,  ate  his  supper,  pushed  back 
his  chair,  and  joined  in  the  general  conversation, 
smoking,  and  drinking  coffee  or  a  little  wine, 
until  it  was  time  to  go .  home.  There  were  grey 
headed  painters  who  had  hardly  been  absent  more 
than  a  few  days  in  five  and  twenty  years  from  their 
accustomed  tables  at  such  places  as  the  Falcone, 
the  G-abbione,  or  the  Genio.  But  Reanda  had  never 
joined  in  any  of  these  little  circles  for  longer  than 
293 


294  CAS  A    BRACCIO. 

a  month  or  two,  by  which  time  he  had  exhausted 
the  stock  of  his  companions'  ideas,  and  returned 
to  solitude  and  his  own  thoughts.  For  he  had 
something  which  they  had  not,  besides  his  greater 
talent,  his  broader  intelligence,  and  his  deeper 
artistic  insight.  Donna  Francesca's  refining  influ 
ence  exerted  itself  continually  upon  him,  and  made 
much  of  the  common  conversation  tiresome  or  dis 
agreeable  to  him.  A  man  whose  existence  is  pen 
etrated  by  the  presence  of  a  rarely  refined  woman 
seldom  cares  much  for  the  daily  society  of  men. 
He  prefers  to  be  alone,  when  he  cannot  be  with  her. 

Reanda  believed  that  what  he  felt  for  Francesca 
was  a  devoted  and  almost  devout  friendship.  The 
fact  that  before  many  weeks  had  passed  after  his 
first  meeting  with  Gloria  he  was  perceptibly  in 
love  with  the  girl,  while  he  felt  not  the  smallest 
change  in  his  relations  with  Donna  Francesca,  sat 
isfactorily  proved  to  him  that  he  was  right.  It 
would  not  have  been  like  an  Italian  and  a  Latin  to 
compare  his  feelings  for  the  two  women  by  imagi 
nary  tests,  as,  for  instance,  by  asking  himself  for 
which  of  the  two  he  would  make  the  greater  sacri 
fice.  He  took  it  for  granted  that  the  one  sentiment 
was  friendship  and  the  other  love,  and  he  acted 
accordingly. 

He  was  distrustful,  indeed,  and  very  suspicious, 
but  not  of  himself.  Gloria  treated  him  too  well. 
Her  eyes  told  him  more  than  he  felt  able  to  be- 


CASA   BRACC1O.  295 

lieve.  It  was  not  natural  that  a  girl  so  young  and 
fresh  and  beautiful,  with  the  world  before  her, 
should  fall  in  love  with  a  man  of  his  age.  That, 
at  least,  was  what  he  thought.  But  the  fact  that 
it  was  unnatural  did  not  prevent  it  from  taking 
place. 

Reanda  ignored  certain  points  of  great  impor 
tance.  In  the  first  place,  Gloria  had  not  really 
the  world  before  her.  Her  little  sphere  was  closely 
limited  by  her  father's  morose  selfishness,  which 
led  him  to  keep  her  in  Rome  because  he  liked  the 
place  himself,  and  to  keep  away  from  his  country 
men,  whom  he  detested  as  heartily  as  Britons  living 
abroad  sometimes  do.  On  the  other  hand,  a  vague 
dread  lest  the  story  of  his  marriage  might  some 
day  come  to  the  light  kept  him  away  from  Roman 
society.  He  had  fallen  back  upon  artistic  Bohemia 
for  such  company  as  he  wanted,  which  was  little 
enough,  and  as  his  child  grew  up  he  had  not  under 
stood  that  she  was  developing  early  and  coming  to 
womanhood  while  she  was  still  under  the  care  of 
the  governess  he  had  provided.  He  had  not  even 
made  any  plans  for  her  future,  for  he  did  not  love 
her,  though  he  indulged  her  as  a  selfish  and  easy 
means  of  fulfilling  his  paternal  obligations.  It 
was  to  get  rid  of  her  importunity  that  he  began 
to  take  her  to  the  houses  of  some  of  the  married 
artists  when  she  was  only  sixteen  years  old,  though 
she  looked  at  least  two  years  older. 


296  CAS  A    BRACCIO. 

But  in  such  society  as  that,  Eeanda  was  easily 
first,  apart  from  the  talent  which  placed  him  at 
the  head  of  the  whole  artistic  profession.  He  had 
been  brought  up,  taught,  and  educated  among 
gentlemen,  sons  of  one  of  the  oldest  and  most  fas 
tidious  aristocracies  in  Europe,  and  he  had  their 
manners,  their  speech,  their  quiet  air  of  superior 
ity,  and  especially  that  exterior  gentleness  and 
modesty  of  demeanour  which  most  touches  some 
women.  In  Gloria's  opinion,  he  even  had  much 
of  their  appearance,  being  tall,  thin,  and  dark. 
Accustomed  as  she  was  to  living  with  her  father, 
who  was  gloomy  and  morose,  and  to  seeing  much 
of  Paul  Griggs,  whose  powers  of  silence  were  phe 
nomenal  at  that  time,  Reanda's  easy  grace  of  con 
versation  charmed  and  flattered  her.  He  was,  by 
many  degrees,  the  superior  in  talent,  in  charm,  in 
learning,  to  any  one  she  had  ever  met,  and  it  must 
not  be  forgotten  that  although  he  was  twenty  years 
older  than  she,  he  was  not  yet  forty,  and  that,  as 
he  had  not  a  grey  hai'r  in  his  head,  he  could  still 
pass  for  a  young  man,  though  his  grave  disposition 
made  him  feel  older  than  he  was.  Of  the  three 
melancholic  men  in  whose  society  she  chiefly  lived, 
her  father  was  selfish  and  morose;  Griggs  was 
gentle,  but  silent  and  incomprehensible,  though  he 
exerted  an  undoubted  influence  over  her;  Eeanda 
alone,  though  naturally  melancholy,  was  at  once 
gentle,  companionable,  and  talkative  with  her. 


CASA   BSACCIO.  297 

Dalrymple  accepted  the  intimacy  with  indifference 
and  even  with  a  certain  satisfaction.  In  his  reflex 
ions,  he  characterized  Reanda  as  a  rare  combina 
tion  of  the  great  artist  and  the  gentleman.  Since 
Gloria  had  known  him  she  had  grown  more  quiet. 
She  admired  him  and  imitated  his  manner.  It  was 
a  good  thing.  He  was  glad,  too,  that  Eeanda  was 
not  married,  for  it  would  have  been  a  nuisance, 
thought  Dalrymple,  to  have  the  man's  wife  always 
about  and  expecting  to  be  amused. 

It  began  to  occur  to  him  that  Keanda  might  be 
falling  in  love  with  Gloria,  and  he  did  not  resent 
the  idea.  In  fact,  though  at  first  sight  it  should 
have  seemed  strange  to  an  Englishman,  he  looked 
upon  the  idea  with  favour.  He  wished  to  live  out 
his  life  in  Italy,  for  he  had  got  that  fierce  affection 
for  the  country  which  has  overcome  and  bound  many 
northern  men,  from  Sir  John  Hawkwood  to  Landor 
and  Browning.  Though  he  did  not  love  Gloria, 
he  was  attached  to  her  in  his  own  way,  and  did 
not  wish  to  lose  sight  of  her  altogether.  But, 
in  consequence  of  his  own  irregular  marriage,  he 
could  not  marry  her  to  a  man  of  his  own  rank  in 
Rome,  who  would  not  fail  to  make  inquiries  about 
her  mother.  It  was  most  natural  that  he  should 
look  upon  such  a  man  as  Reanda  with  favour. 
Reanda  had  many  good  qualities.  Dalrymple's 
judgment  was  generally  keen  enough  about  people, 
and  he  had  understood  that  such  a  woman  as  Donna 


298  CASA   BItACCIO. 

Francesca  Campodonico  would  certainly  not  make 
a  personal  friend  of  a  painter,  and  allow  him  to 
occupy  rooms  in  her  palace,  unless  his  character 
were  altogether  above  suspicion. 

Gloria  was,  of  course,  too  young  to  be  married 
yet,  though  she  seemed  to  be  so  entirely  grown  up 
and  altogether  a  woman.  In  this  respect  Dalrym- 
ple  was  not  prejudiced.  His  own  mother  had  been 
married  at  the  age  of  seventeen,  and  he  had  lived 
long  in  Italy,  where  early  marriages  were  common 
enough.  There  could  certainly  be  no  serious  objec 
tion  to  the  match  on  that  score,  when  another  year 
should  have  passed. 

Dalrymple's  only  anxiety  about  his  daughter 
concerned  her  strong  inclination  to  be  a  public 
singer.  The  prejudice  was  by  no  means  extraordi 
nary,  and  as  a  Scotchman,  it  had  even  more  weight 
with  him  than  it  could  have  had,  for  instance,  with 
an  Italian.  Reanda  entirely  agreed  with  him  on 
this  point,  and  when  Gloria  spoke  of  it,  he  never 
failed  to  draw  a  lively  picture  of  the  drawbacks 
attending  stage  life.  The  artist  spoke  very  strongly, 
for  one  of  Gloria's  earliest  and  chiefest  attractions 
in  his  eyes  had  been  the  certainty  he  felt  that  she 
belonged  to  Francesca's  class.  For  that  reason  her 
flattering  admiration  had  brought  with  it  a  pecul 
iar  savour,  especially  delightful  to  the  taste  of  a 
man  of  humble  origin.  Dalrymple  did  not  under 
stand  that,  but  he  knew  that  if  Gloria  married  the 


*  CAS  A   EEACC10.  299 

great  painter,  the  latter  would  efiectually  keep 
her  from  the  stage. 

As  for  Griggs,  the  Scotchman  was  well  aware 
that  the  poor  young  journalist  might  easily  fall  in 
love  with  the  beautiful  girl.  But  this  did  not 
deter  him  at  all  from  having  Griggs  constantly  at 
the  house.  Griggs  was  the  only  man  he  had  ever 
met  who  did  not  bore  him,  who  could  be  silent  for 
an  hour  at  a  time,  who  could  swallow  as  much 
strong  wine  as  he  without  the  slightest  apparent 
effect  upon  his  manner,  who  understood  all  he 
said,  though  sometimes  saying  things  which  he 
could  not  understand  —  in  short,  Griggs  was  a 
necessity  to  him.  The  young  man  was  perhaps 
aware  of  the  fact,  and  he  found  Dalrymple  con 
genial  to  his  own  temper;  but  he  was  as  excessively 
proud  as  he  was  extremely  poor,  at  that  time,  and 
he  managed  to  refuse  the  greater  part  of  the  hospi 
tality  offered  to  him,  simply  because  he  could  not 
return  it.  It  was  very  rarely  that  he  accepted  an 
invitation  to  a  meal,  though  he  now  generally  came 
in  the  evening,  besides  meeting  Dalrymple  almost 
every  morning  when  they  went  to  the  bookseller's 
together. 

He  puzzled  the  Scotchman  strangely.  He  was 
an  odd  combination  of  a  thinker  and  an  athlete, 
half  literary  man,  half  gladiator.  The  common 
phrase  'an  old  head  on  young  shoulders'  described 
him  as  well  as  any  phrase  could.  The  shoulders 


300  CASA   BEACCIO. 

were  perhaps  the  more  remarkable,  but  the  head 
was  not  to  be  despised.  A  man  who  could  break  a 
horseshoe  and  tear  in  two  a  pack  of  cards,  and  who 
spent  his  spare  time  in  studying  Hegel  and  Kant, 
when  he  was  not  writing  political  correspondence 
for  newspapers,  deserved  to  be  considered  an 
exception.  He  seemed  to  have  no  material  wants, 
and  yet  he  had  the  animal  power  of  enjoying  mate 
rial  things  even  in  excess,  which  is  rare.  He  had 
a  couple  of  rooms  in  the  Via  della  Frezza,  between 
the  Corso  and  the  Kipetta,  where  he  lived  in  a 
rather  mysterious  way,  though  he  made  no  secret 
about  it.  Occasionally  an  acquaintance  climbed 
the  steep  stairs,  but  no  one  ever  got  him  to  open 
the  door  nor  to  give  any  sign  that  he  was  at  home, 
if  he  were  within.  A  one-eyed  cobbler  acted  as 
porter  downstairs,  from  morning  till  night,  astride 
upon  his  bench  and  ever  at  work,  an  ill-savoured 
old  pipe  in  his  mouth. 

"You  may  try,"  he  answered,  when  any  one 
asked  for  Griggs.  "Who  knows?  Perhaps  Sor 
Paolo  will  open.  Try  a  little,  if  you  have  pa 
tience." 

Patience  being  exhausted,  the  visitor  came  down 
the  five  flights  again,  and  remonstrated  with  the 
cobbler. 

"I  did  not  say  anything,"  he  would  reply,  in  a 
cloud  of  smoke.  "  Many  have  tried.  I  told  you 
to  try.  Am  I  to  tell  you  that  no  one  has  ever  got 


CAS  A    BRACCIO.  301 

in?    Why?    To  disoblige  you?    If  you  want  any 
thing  of  Sor  Paolo,  say  it  to  me.     Or  come  again." 

"  But  he  will  not  open, "  objected  the  visitor. 

"Oh,  that  is  true,"  returned  the  man  of  one  eye. 
"  But  if  you  wish  to  try,  I  am  not  here  to  hinder 
you.  This  is  the  truth." 

Now  and  then,  some  one  more  inquisitive  sug 
gested  that  there  might  be  a  lady  in  the  question. 
The  one  eye  then  fixed  itself  in  a  vacant  stare. 

"Females?"  the  cobbler  would  exclaim.  "Not 
even  cats.  What  passes  through  your  head?  He 
is  alone  always.  If  you  do  not  believe  me,  you 
can  try.  I  do  not  say  Sor  Paolo  will  not  open  the 
door.  A  door  is  a  door,  to  be  opened." 

"  But  since  I  have  tried !  " 

"And  I,  what  can  I  do?  You  have  come,  you 
have  seen,  you  have  knocked,  and  no  one  has 
opened.  May  the  Madonna  accompany  you!  I 
can  do  nothing." 

So  even  the  most  importunate  of  visitors  departed 
at  last.  But  Griggs  had  taken  Dalrymple  up  to 
his  lodgings  more  than  once,  and  they  had  sat  there 
for  an  hour  talking  over  books.  Dalrymple  ob 
served,  indeed,  that  Griggs  was  more  inclined  to 
talk  in  his  own  rooms  than  anywhere  else,  and 
that  his  manner  then  changed  so  much  as  to  make 
him  almost  seem  to  be  a  different  man.  There 
was  a  look  of  interest  in  the  stony  mask,  and  there 
was  a  light  in  the  deep-set  eyes  which  neither  wine 


802  CASA   BRACCIO. 

nor  wit  could  bring  there  at  other  times.  The 
man  wore  his  armour  against  the  world,  as  it  were, 
a  tough  shell  made  up  of  a  poor  man's  pride,  and 
solid  with  that  sense  of  absolute  physical  superi 
ority  which  is  an  element  iu  the  character  of  strong 
men,  and  which  the  Scotchman  understood.  He 
himself  had  been  of  the  strong,  but  not  always 
the  strongest.  Paul  Griggs  had  never  yet  been 
matched  by  any  man  since  he  had  first  got  his 
growth.  He  was  the  equal  of  many  in  intellect, 
but  his  bodily  strength  was  not  equalled  by  any 
in  his  youth  and  manhood.  The  secret  of  his  one 
well-hidden  vanity  lay  in  that.  His  moral  power 
showed  itself  in  his  assumed  modesty  about  it,  for 
it  was  almost  impossible  to  prevail  upon  him  to 
make  exhibition  of  it.  Gloria  alone  seemed  able 
to  induce  him,  for  her  especial  amusement,  to  break 
a  silver  dollar  with  his  fingers,  or  tear  a  pack  of 
cards,  and  then  only  in  the  presence  of  her  father 
or  Eeanda,  but  never  before  other  people. 

"You  are  the  strongest  man  in  the  world,  are 
you  not?"  she  asked  him  once. 

"Yes," he  answered.  "I  probably  am,  if  it  is  I. 
I  am  vain  of  it,  but  not  proud  of  it.  That  makes 
me  think  sometimes  that  I  am  two  men  in  one. 
That  might  account  for  it,  you  know." 

"  What  nonsense !  "     Gloria  laughed. 

"Is  it?  I  daresay  it  is."  And  he  relapsed  into 
indifference,  so  far  as  she  could  see. 


CASA   BBACCIO.  303 

"What  is  the  other  man  like?"  she  asked. 
"Not  the  strong  man  of  the  two,  but  the  other  ?" 

"He  is  a  good  man.  The  strong  man  is  bad. 
They  fight,  and  the  result  is  insignificance.  Some 
day  one  of  the  two  will  get  the  better  of  the 
other." 

"What  will  happen  then?"  she  asked  lightly, 
and  still  inclined  to  laugh. 

"  One  or  the  other,  or  both,  will  die,  I  suppose, " 
he  answered. 

"  How  very  unpleasant !  " 

She  did  not  at  all  understand  what  he  meant. 
At  the  same  time  she  could  not  help  feeling  that 
he  was  eminently  a  man  to  whom  she  would  turn 
in  danger  or  trouble.  Girl  though  she  was,  she 
could  not  mistake  his  great  admiration  of  her,  and 
by  degrees,  as  the  winter  wore  on,  she  trusted  him 
more,  though  he  still  repelled  her  a  little,  for  his 
saturnine  calm  was  opposed  to  her  violent  vitality, 
as  a  black  rock  to  a  tawny  torrent.  Griggs  had 
neither  the  manner  nor  the  temper  which  wins 
women's  hearts  as  a  rule.  Such  men  are  some 
times  loved  by  women  when  their  sorrow  has 
chained  them  to  the  rock  of  horror,  and  grief  insa 
tiable  tears  out  their  broken  hearts.  But  in  their 
strength  they  are  not  loved.  They  cannot  give 
themselves  yet,  for  their  strength  hinders  them, 
and  women  think  them  miserly  of  words  and  of 
love's  little  coin  of  change.  If  they  get  love  at 


304  CAS  A   BBACCIO. 

last,  it  is  as  the  pity  which  the  unhurt  weak  feel 
for  the  ruined  strong. 

Gloria  was  not  above  irritating  Griggs  occasion 
ally,  when  the  fancy  took  her  to  seek  amusement 
in  that  way.  She  knew  how  to  do  it,  and  he  rarely 
turned  upon  her,  even  in  the  most  gentle  way. 

"We  are  good  friends,  are  we  not?"  she  asked 
one  day,  when  it  was  raining  and  he  was  alone 
with  her,  waiting  for  her  father  to  come  in. 

"I  hope  so,"  he  answered,  turning  his  impassive 
face  slowly  towards  her. 

"Then  you  ought  to  be  much  nicer  to  me,"  she  said. 

"I  am  as  nice  as  I  know  how  to  be,"  replied 
Griggs,  with  fixed  eyes.  "  What  shall  I  do?" 

"That  is  it.  You  ought  to  know.  You  could 
talk  and  say  pleasant  things,  for  instance.  Don't 
you  admit  that  you  are  very  dull  to-day?" 

"I  admit  it.    I  regret  it,  and  I  wish  I  were  not." 

"  You  need  not  be.  I  am  sure  you  can  talk  very 
well,  when  you  please.  You  are  not  exactly  funny 
at  any  time,  but  to-day  you  are  funereal.  You 
remind  me  of  those  big  black  horses  they  use  for 
hearses,  you  know." 

"Thank  you,  thank  you,"  said  Griggs,  quietly, 
repeating  the  words  without  emphasis. 

"I  don't  like  you!"  she  exclaimed  petulantly, 
but  with  a  little  laugh. 

"I  know  that,"  he  answered.  "But  I  like  you 
very  much.  We  were  probably  meant  to  differ." 


CASA   BRACCIO.  305 

"  Then  you  might  amuse  me.  It's  awfully  dull 
when  it  rains.  Pull  the  house  down,  or  tear  up 
silver  scudi,  or  something." 

"I  am  not  Samson,  and  I  am  not  a  clown," 
observed  Griggs,  coldly. 

"  I  shall  never  like  you  if  you  are  so  disagreea 
ble,"  said  Gloria,  taking  up  a  book,  and  settling 
herself  to  read. 

"I  am  afraid  you  never  will,"  answered  Griggs, 
following  her  example. 

A  few  minutes  passed  in  silence.  Then  Gloria 
looked  up  suddenly. 

"Mr.  Griggs?" 

"Yes?" 

"I  did  not  mean  to  be  horrid." 

"No,  of  course  not." 

"Because,  if  I  were  ever  in  trouble,  you  know 
—  I  should  come  straight  to  you." 

"Thank  you,"  he  answered  very  gently.  "But 
I  hope  you  will  never  be  in  trouble.  If  you  ever 
should  be  —  "  He  stopped. 

"Well?" 

"I  do  not  think  you  would  find  anybody  who 
would  try  harder  to  help  you,"  he  said  simply. 

She  wished  that  his  voice  would  tremble,  or  that 
he  would  put  out  his  hand  towards  her,  or  show 
something  a  little  more  like  emotion.  But  she  had 
to  be  satisfied. 

"  Would  it  be  the  good  man  or  the  bad  man  that 

VOL.   I.  —  X 


306  CAS  A    BBACCIO. 

would  help  me,?"  she  asked,  remembering  the 
former  conversation. 

"Both,"  answered  Griggs,  without  hesitation. 

"I  am  not  sure  that  I  might  not  like  the  bad 
man  better,"  said  Gloria,  almost  to  herself. 

"Is  Reanda  a  bad  man?"  inquired  Griggs, 
slowly,  and  looking  for  the  blush  in  her  face. 

"Why?"     But  she  blushed,  as  he  expected. 

"Because  you  like  him  better  than  me." 

"  You  are  quite  different.  It  is  of  no  use  to  talk 
about  it,  and  I  want  to  read." 

She  turned  from  him  and  buried  herself  in  her 
book,  but  she  moved  restlessly  two  or  three  times, 
and  it  was  some  minutes  before  the  heightened 
colour  disappeared  from  her  face. 

She  was  very  girlish  still,  and  when  she  had 
irritated  Griggs  as  far  as  such  a  man  was  capable 
of  irritation,  she  preferred  to  refuse  battle  rather 
than  deal  with  the  difficulty  she  had  created.  But 
Griggs  understood,  and  amongst  his  still  small 
sufferings  he  often  felt  the  little,  dull,  hopeless 
pang  which  tells  a  man  that  he  is  unlovable. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

VERY  late,  one  night  in  the  Carnival  season, 
Paul  Griggs  was  walking  the  streets  alone.  His 
sufferings  were  no  longer  so  small  as  they  had 
been,  and  the  bitterness  of  solitude  was  congenial 
to  him. 

He  had  been  at  the  house  of  a  Spanish  artist, 
where  there  had  been  dancing  and  music  and  sup 
per  and  improvised  tableaux.  Gloria  and  her 
father  and  Reanda  had  all  been  there,  too,  and 
something  had  happened  which  had  stirred  the 
depths  of  the  young  man's  slow  temper.  He  hated 
to  make  an  exhibition  of  himself,  and  much  against 
his  will  he  had  been  exhibited,  as  it  were,  to  help 
the  gaiety  of  the  entertainment.  Cotogni,  the 
great  sculptor,  had  suggested  that  Griggs  should 
appear  as  Samson,  asleep  with  his  head  on  Delilah's 
knee,  and  bound  by  her  with  cords  which  he  should 
seem  to  break  as  the  Philistines  rushed  in.  He 
had  refused  flatly,  again  and  again,  till  all  the 
noisy  party  caught  the  idea  and  forced  him  to  it. 

They  had  dressed  him  in  silk  draperies,  his 
mighty  arms  bare  almost  to  the  shoulder,  and  they 

had  given  him  a  long,  dark,  theatrical  wig.     They 
307 


308  CAS  A    BEACCIO. 

had  bound  his  arms  and  chest  with  cords,  and  had 
made  him  lie  down  and  pretend  to  be  asleep  at  the 
feet  of  the  artist's  beautiful  wife.  They  had  made 
slipping  knots  in  the  cords,  so  that  he  could  easily 
wrench  them  loose.  Then  the  curtain  had  been 
drawn  aside,  and  there  had  been  a  pause  as  the 
tableau  was  shown.  All  at  once  a  mob  of  artists, 
draped  hastily  in  anything  they  could  lay  their 
hands  upon,  and  with  all  manner  of  helmets  on 
their  heads  from  the  Spaniard's  collection,  had 
rushed  in. 

"  The  Philistines  are  upon  thee !  "  cried  Delilah 
in  a  piercing  voice. 

He  sprang  to  his  feet,  his  legs  being  free,  and 
he  struggled  with  the  cords.  The  knots  would  not 
slip  as  they  were  meant  to  do.  The  situation  lasted 
several  seconds,  and  was  ridiculous  enough. 

People  began  to  laugh. 

"Cut  off  his  hair!  "  cried  one. 

"Of  what  use  was  the  wig?"  laughed  another, 
and  every  one  tittered. 

Griggs  could  hear  Gloria's  clear,  high  laugh 
above  the  rest.  His  blood  slowly  rose  in  his 
throat.  But  no  one  pulled  the  curtain  across. 
The  Philistines,  young  artists,  mad  with  Carnival, 
improvised  a  very  eccentric  dance  of  triumph,  and 
the  laughter  increased. 

Griggs  looked  at  the  cords.  Then  his  mask-like 
face  turned  slowly  to  the  audience.  Only  the  great 


CASA    BRACCIO.  309 

veins  swelled  suddenly  at  his  temples,  while  every 
one  watched  him  in  the  general  amusement. 
Suddenly  his  eyes  flashed,  and  he  drew  a  deep 
breath,  for  he  was  angry.  In  an  instant  there  was 
dead  silence  in  the  room.  A  moment  later  one  of 
the  cords,  drawn  tight  round  his  chest,  over  the 
silk  robe,  snapped  like  a  thread,  then  another,  and 
then  a  third.  Then  in  a  sort  of  frenzy  of  anger 
he  savagely  broke  the  whole  cord  into  pieces  with 
his  hands,  tossing  the  bits  contemptuously  upon 
the  floor.  His  face  was  as  white  as  a  dead  man's. 

A  roar  of  applause  broke  the  silence  when  the 
guests  realized  what  he  had  done.  The  artists 
seized  him  and  carried  him  high  in  procession 
round  the  room,  the  women  threw  flowers  at  him, 
and  some  one  struck  up  a  triumphal  march  on  the 
piano.  It  was  an  ovation.  Half  an  hour  later, 
dressed  again  in  his  ordinary  clothes,  he  found  him 
self  next  to  Gloria. 

"  You  told  me  the  other  day  that  you  were  not 
Samson,"  she  said.  "You  see  you  can  be  when 
you  choose." 

"No,  "answered  G-riggs,  coldly;  "I  am  a  clown." 

What  she  had  said  was  natural  enough,  but  some 
how  the  satisfaction  of  his  bodily  vanity  had  stung 
his  moral  pride  beyond  endurance.  It  seemed  a 
despicable  thing  to  be  as  vain  as  he  was  of  a  gift 
for  which  he  had  not  paid  any  price.  Deep  down, 
too,  he  felt  bitterly  that  he  had  never  received  the 


310  CAS  A   BBACCIO. 

slightest  praise  for  any  thought  of  his  which  he 
had  written  down  and  sent  to  that  cauldron  of  the 
English  daily  press  in  which  all  individual  right 
to  distinction  disappears,  with  all  claim  to  praise, 
from  written  matter,  however  good  it  be.  He 
worked,  he  read,  he  studied,  he  wrote  late,  and 
rose  early  to  observe.  But  his  natural  gift  was  to 
be  a  mountebank,  a  clown,  a  circus  Hercules.  By 
stiffening  one  of  his  senseless  arms  he  could  bring 
down  roars  of  applause.  By  years  of  bitter  labour 
with  his  pen  he  earned  the  barest  living.  The 
muscles  that  a  porter  might  have,  offered  him  opu 
lence,  because  it  was  tougher  by  a  few  degrees  than 
the  flesh  of  other  men.  The  knowledge  he  had 
striven  for  just  kept  him  above  absolute  want. 

He  slipped  away  from  the  gay  party  as  soon  as 
he  could.  His  last  glance  round  the  room  showed 
him  Angelo  Reanda  and  Gloria,  sitting  in  a  corner 
apart.  The  girl's  face  was  grave.  There  was  a 
gentle  and  happy  light  in  the  artist's  eyes  which 
Griggs  had  never  seen.  That  also  was  the  strong 
man's  portion. 

Wrathfully  he  strode  away  from  the  house,  under 
the  dim  oil  lamps,  an  unlighted  cigar  between  his 
teeth,  his  soft  felt  hat  drawn  over  his  eyes.  He 
crossed  the  city  towards  the  Pantheon  and  the 
Piazza  Xavona,  his  cigar  still  unlighted. 

The  streets  were  alive,  though  it  was  very  late. 
There  was  more  freedom  to  be  gay  and  more  hope 


CAS  A   BEACCIO.  311 

of  being  simply  happy  in  those  days.  Many  men 
and  women  wandered  about  in  bands  of  ten  or  a 
dozen,  singing  in  soft  voices,  above  which  now 
and  then  rose  a  few  ringing  tenor  notes.  There 
was  laughter  everywhere  in  the  air;  tambourines 
drummed  and  thumped  and  jingled,  guitars  twanged, 
and  mandolines  tinkled  and  quavered.  From  a 
dark  lane  somewhere  off  the  broader  thoroughfare, 
a  single  voice  sang  out  in  serenade.  The  Corso 
was  bright  with  unusual  lights,  and  strewn  with 
the  birdseed  and  plaster-of -Paris  '  confetti, '  with 
yellow  sand  and  sprigs  of  box  leaves,  and  withering 
flowers,  and  there  was  about  all  the  neighbourhood 
that  peculiar  smell  of  plaster  and  crushed  flower- 
stalks  which  belonged  then  to  the  street  carnival  of 
Koine.  Further  on,  in  the  dim  quarters  by  the 
Tiber,  the  wine  shops  were  all  crowded,  and  men 
stood  and  drank  outside  on  the  pavement,  and  paid, 
and  went  laughing  on,  laughing  and  singing,  sing 
ing  and  laughing,  through  the  night. 

Griggs  felt  the  penetrating  loneliness  of  him 
who  cannot  laugh  amidst  laughter,  and  it  was  con 
genial  to  him.  He  had  always  been  alone,  and  he 
felt  that  the  world  held  no  companion  for  him. 
There  was  satisfaction  in  knowing  that  no  one  could 
ever  guess  what  went  on  between  his  heart  and  his 
head. 

He  wandered  on  with  the  same  even,  untiring 
stride,  for  a  long  time,  through  the  dark  and  wind- 


312  CAS  A   BRACCIO. 

ing  ways,  from  the  Pantheon  through  the  old  city, 
through  Piazza  Paganica  and  Costaguti  to  Piazza 
Montanara,  where  the  carters  and  carriers  congre 
gate  from  the  country.  There,  in  the  middle  of 
the  three-cornered  open  space,  a  flag  in  the  paving 
marked  the  spot  on  which  men  used  to  be  put  to 
death.  To-night  even  the  carriers  were  making 
merry.  Griggs  was  thirsty,  and  paused  at  the  door 
of  a  wine  shop.  Though  it  was  winter,  men  were 
sitting  outside,  for  there  was  no  more  room  within. 
A  flaring  torch  of  pitched  rope  was  stuck  in  an  iron 
ring,  and  shed  an  uncertain,  smoky  light  upon  the 
men's  faces.  A  drawer  in  an  apron  brought 
Griggs  a  glass,  and  he  drank  standing. 

"  It  makes  no  difference, "  said  a  rough  voice  in 
the  little  crowd.  "  They  may  cut  off  my  head  there 
on  the  paving-stone.  They  would  do  me  a  favour. 
If  I  find  him,  I  kill  him.  An  evil  death  on  him 
and  all  his  house !  " 

Griggs  looked  at  the  speaker  without  surprise, 
for  he  had  often  heard  such  things  said.  He  saw 
an  iron-grey  man  in  good  peasant's  clothes  of  dark 
blue  with  broad  silver  buttons,  a  man  with  a  true 
Roman  face,  a  small  aquiline  nose,  and  keen,  dark 
eyes.  He  turned  away,  and  began  to  retrace  his 
steps. 

In  half  an  hour  he  was  at  the  door  of  the  old 
Falcone  inn,  gone  now  like  many  relics  of  that 
day.  It  stood  in  the  Piazza  of  Saint  Eustace  near 


CASA    BRACCIO.  313 

the  Pantheon,  and  in  its  time  was  the  best  of  the 
old-fashioned  eating-houses.  G-riggs  felt  suddenly 
hungry.  He  had  walked  seven  or  eight  miles  since 
he  had  left  the  party.  He  entered,  and  passed 
through  the  crowded  rooms  below  and  up  the 
narrow  steps  to  a  small  upper  chamber,  where  he 
hoped  to  be  alone.  But  there,  also,  every  seat  was 
taken. 

To  his  surprise  Dalrymple  and  Reanda  were  at 
the  table  furthest  from  him,  in  earnest  conversa 
tion,  with  a  measure  of  wine  between  them.  Griggs 
had  never  seen  the  Italian  there  before,  but  the 
latter  caught  sight  of  him  as  he  stood  in  the  door, 
and  rose  to  his  feet,  making  a  sign  which  meant 
that  he  was  going  away,  and  that  the  chair  was 
vacant.  Griggs  came  forward,  and  looked  into  his 
face  as  they  met.  There  was  the  same  gentle  and 
happy  light  in  Reanda' s  eyes  which  had  been  there 
when  he  was  sitting  with  Gloria  in  the  corner  of 
the  Spanish  artist's  drawing-room.  Then  Griggs 
understood  and  knew  the  truth,  and  guessed  the 
meaning  of  the  unaccustomed  pressure  of  the  hand 
as  Reanda  greeted  him  without  speaking,  and  hur 
riedly  went  out. 

Dalrymple  had  seen  Griggs  coming  and  was 
already  calling  to  a  man  in  a  spotless  white  jacket 
for  another  glass  and  more  wine.  The  Scotchman's 
bony  face  was" haggard,  but  there  was  a  little  colour 
in  his  cheeks,  and  he  seemed  pleased. 


314  CASA    BEACCIO. 

"Sit  down,  Griggs,"  he  said.  "There  are  no 
more  chairs,  so  we  can  keep  the  table  to  ourselves. 
I  hope  you  are  half  as  thirsty  as  I  am." 

"Rather  more  than  half,"  answered  the  other, 
and  he  drank  eagerly.  "Give  me  some  more, 
please,"  he  said,  holding  out  his  glass. 

"  I  see  that  you  are  in  the  right  humour  to  hear 
good  news, "  said  the  Scot.  "  Eeanda  is  to  marry 
my  daughter  in  the  summer." 

"I  congratulate  you  all  three,"  said  Griggs, 
slowly,  for  he  had  known  what  was  coming.  "  Let 
us  drink  the  health  of  the  couple." 

"By  all  means,"  answered  Dalrymple,  rilling 
again.  "  By  all  means  let  us  drink.  I  could  not  swal 
low  that  sweet  stuff  at  Mendoza's.  This  is  better. 
By  all  means  let  us  drink  as  much  as  we  can." 

"That  might  mean  a  good  deal,"  said  Griggs, 
quickly,  and  he  drained  a  third  glass.  "Were 
you  ever  drunk,  Dalrymple  ? "  he  inquired 
gravely. 

"No.     I  never  was,"  answered  the  Scotchman. 

"Nor  I.  This  seems  a  fitting  occasion  for  trying 
an  experiment.  We  might  try  to  get  drunk." 

"By  all  means,  let  us  try,"  replied  Dalrymple. 
"I  have  my  doubts  about  the  possibility  of  the 
thing,  however." 

"So  have  I." 

They  sat  opposite  to  one  another  in  silence  for 
some  minutes,  each  satisfied  that  the  other  was  in 


CAS  A    BBACCIO.  315 

earnest.  Dalrymple  solemnly  filled  the  glasses 
and  then  leaned  back  in  his  chair. 

"  You  did  not  seem  much  surprised  by  what 
I  told  you,"  he  observed  at  last.  "I  suppose  you 
expected  it." 

"Yes.  It  seemed  natural  enough,  though  it  is 
not  always  the  natural  things  that  happen." 

"  I  think  they  are  suited  to  marry.  Of  course, 
Reanda  is  very  much  older,  but  he  is  comparatively 
a  young  man  still." 

"  Comparatively.  He  will  make  a  better  hus 
band  for  having  had  experience,  I  daresay." 

"  That  depends  on  what  experience  he  has  had. 
When  I  first  saw  him  I  thought  he  was  in  love 
with  Donna  Francesca.  It  would  have  been  like 
an  artist.  They  are  mostly  fools.  But  I  was 
mistaken.  He  worships  at  a  distance." 

"And  she  preserves  the  distance,"  Griggs  re 
marked.  "You  are  not  drinking  fair.  My  glass 
is  empty." 

Dalrymple  finished  his  and  refilled  both. 

"  I  have  been  here  some  time,"  he  observed,  half 
apologetically.  "  But  as  I  was  saying  —  or  rather, 
as  you  were  saying  —  Donna  Francesca  preserves 
the  distance.  These  Italians  do  that  admirably. 
They  know  the  difference  between  intimacy  and 
familiarity." 

"That  is  a  nice  distinction,"  said  Griggs.  "I 
will  use  it  in  my  next  letter.  No.  Donna  Fran- 


316  CASA    BBACCIO. 

cesca  could  never  be  familiar  with  any  one.  They 
learn  it  when  they  are  young,  I  suppose,  and  it 
becomes  a  race-characteristic." 

"  What  ?  "  asked  Dalrymple,  abruptly. 

"A  certain  graceful  loftiness,"  answered  the 
younger  man. 

The  Scotchman's  wrinkled  eyelids  contracted, 
and  he  was  silent  for  a  few  moments. 

"A  certain  graceful  loftiness,"  he  repeated 
slowly.  "Yes,  perhaps  so.  A  certain  graceful 
loftiness." 

"You  seem  struck  by  the  expression,"  said 
Griggs. 

"  I  am.  Drink,  man,  drink  ! "  added  Dalrymple, 
suddenly,  in  a  different  tone.  "There's  no  time 
to  be  lost  if  we  mean  to  drink  enough  to  hurt  us 
before  those  beggars  go  to  bed." 

"  Never  fear.  They  will  be  up  all  night.  Not 
that  it  is  a  reason  for  wasting  time,  as  you  say." 

He  drank  his  glass  and  watched  Dalrymple  as 
the  latter  did  likewise,  with  that  deliberate  inten 
tion  which  few  but  Scotchmen  can  maintain  on 
such  occasions.  The  wine  might  have  been  poured 
into  a  quicksand,  for  any  effect  it  had  as  yet 
produced. 

"  Those  race-characteristics  of  families  are  very 
curious,"  continued  Griggs,  thoughtfully. 

"Are  they?"  Dalrymple  looked  at  him  sus 
piciously. 


CASA    BRACCIO.  317 

"Very.  Especially  voices.  They  run  in  fami 
lies,  like  resemblance  of  features." 

"  So  they  do,"  answered  the  other,  thoughtfully. 
"  So  they  do." 

He  had  of  late  years  got  into  the  habit  of  often 
repeating  such  short  phrases,  in  an  absent-minded 
way. 

"Yes,"  said  Griggs.  "I  noticed  Donna  Fran- 
cesca's  voice,  the  first  time  I  ever  heard  it.  It 
is  one  of  those  voices  which  must  be  inherited. 
I  am  sure  that  all  her  family  have  spoken  as 
she  does.  It  reminds  me  of  something  —  of  some 
one  —  " 

Dalrymple  raised  his  eyes  suddenly  again,  as 
though  he  were  irritated. 

"  I  say,"  he  began,  interrupting  his  companion. 
"  Do  you  feel  anything  ?  Anything  queer  in  your 
head  ?  " 

"No.     Why?" 

"You  are  talking  rather  disconnectedly,  that 
is  all." 

"  Am  I  ?  It  did  not  strike  me  that  I  was  inco 
herent.  Probably  one  half  of  me  was  asleep  while 
the  other  was  talking."  He  laughed  drily,  and 
drank  again.  "No,"  he  said  thoughtfully,  as  he 
set  down  his  glass.  "I  feel  nothing  unusual  ill 
my  head.  It  would  be  odd  if  I  did,  considering 
that  we  have  only  just  begun." 

"  So  I  thought,"  answered  Dalrymple. 


318  CAS  A   BRACCIO. 

He  ordered  more  wine  and  relapsed  into  silence. 
Neither  spoke  again  for  a  long  time. 

"There  goes  another  bottle,"  said  Dalrymple, 
at  last,  as  he  drained  the  last  drops  from  the  flagon 
measure.  "Drink  a  little  faster.  This  is  slow 
work.  We  know  the  old  road  well  enough." 

"You  are  not  inclined  to  give  up  the  attempt, 
are  you?"  inquired  Griggs,  whose  still  face 
showed  no  change.  "  Is  it  fair  to  eat  ?  I  am 
hungry." 

"  Certainly.     Eat  as  much  as  you  like." 

Griggs  ordered  something,  which  was  brought 
after  considerable  delay,  and  he  began  to  eat. 

"  We  are  not  loquacious  over  our  cups,"  re 
marked  Dalrymple.  "  Should  you  mind  telling 
me  why  you  are  anxious  to  get  drunk  to-night  for 
the  first  time  in  your  life?" 

"I  might  ask  you  the  same  question,"  answered 
Griggs,  cautiously. 

"  Merely  because  you  proposed  it.  It  struck  me 
as  a  perfectly  new  idea.  I  have  not  much  to 
amuse  me,  you  know,  and  I  shall  have  less  when 
my  daughter  leaves  me.  It  would  be  an  amuse 
ment  to  lose  one's  head  in  some  way." 

"  In  such  a  way  as  to  be  able  to  get  it  back,  you 
mean.  I  was  walking  this  evening  after  the  party, 
and  I  came  to  the  Piazza  Montanara.  There  is  a 
big  flagstone  there  on  which  people  used  to  leave 
their  heads  for  good." 


CAS  A    BBACCIO.  319 

"Yes.  I  have  seen  it.  You  cannot  tell  me 
much  about  Rome  which  I  do  not  know." 

"  There  were  a  lot  of  carriers  drinking  close  by. 
It  was  rather  grim,  I  thought.  An  old  fellow 
there  had  a  spite  against  somebody.  You  know 
how  they  talk.  '  They  may  cut  off  my  head  there 
on  the  paving-stone/  the  man  said.  'If  I  find 
him,  I  kill  him.  An  evil  death  on  him  and  all  his 
house  ! '  You  have  heard  that  sort  of  thing.  But 
the  fellow  seemed  to  be  very  much  in  earnest." 

"He  will  probably  kill  his  man,"  said  Dai 
ry  mple. 

Suddenly  his  big,  loose  shoulders  shook  a  little, 
and  he  shivered.  He  glanced  towards  the  window, 
suspecting  that  it  might  be  open. 

"  Are  you  cold  ?  "  asked  Griggs,  carelessly. 

"  Cold  ?  No.  Some  one  was  walking  over  my 
grave,  as  they  say.  If  we  varied  the  entertain 
ment  with  something  stronger,  we  should  get  on 
faster,  though." 

"No,"  said  G-riggs.  "I  refuse  to  mix  things. 
This  may  be  the  longer  way,  but  it  is  the  safer." 

And  he  drank  again. 

"He  was  a  man  from  Tivoli,  or  Subiaco,"  he 
remarked  presently.  "  He  spoke  with  that  accent." 

"  I  daresay,"  answered  Dalrymple,  who  looked 
down  into  his  glass  at  that  moment,  so  that  his 
face  was  in  shadow. 

Just  then  four  men  who  had  occupied  a  table 


320  CASA   BRACCIO. 

near  the  door  rose  and  went  out.  It  was  late,  even 
for  a  night  in  Carnival. 

"  I  hope  they  are  not  going  to  leave  us  all  to  our 
selves,"  said  Dairy mple.  "The  place  will  be  shut 
up,  and  we  need  at  least  two  hours  more." 

"At  least,"  assented  Paul  Griggs.  "But  they 
expect  to  be  open  all  night.  I  think  there  is  time." 

The  men  at  the  other  tables  showed  no  signs  of 
moving.  They  sat  quietly  in  their  places,  drinking 
steadily,  by  sips.  Some  of  them  were  eating  roasted 
chestnuts,  and  all  were  talking  more  or  less  in  low 
tones.  Occasionally  one  voice  or  another  rose  above 
the  rest  in  an  exclamation,  but  instantly  subsided 
again.  Italians  of  that  class  are  rarely  noisy,  for 
though  the  Romans  drink  deep,  they  generally  have 
strong  heads,  and  would  be  ashamed  of  growing 
excited  over  their  wine. 

The  air  was  heavy,  for  several  men  were  smok 
ing  strong  cigars.  The  vaulted  chamber  was 
lighted  by  a  single  large  oil  lamp  with  a  reflector, 
hung  by  a  cord  from  the  intersection  of  the  cross- 
arches.  The  floor  was  of  glazed  white  tiles,  and 
the  single  window  had  curtains  of  Turkey  red.  It 
was  all  very  clean  and  respectable  and  well  kept, 
even  at  that  crowded  season,  but  the  air  was  heavy 
with  wine  and  tobacco,  and  the  smell  of  cooked 
food,  —  a  peculiar  atmosphere  in  which  the  old- 
fashioned  Eoman  delighted  to  sit  for  hours  on 
holidays. 


CASA    BRACCIO.  321 

Dairy mple  looked  about  him,  moving  his  pale 
blue  eyes  without  turning  his  head.  The  colour 
had  deepened  a  little  on  his  prominent  cheek 
bones,  and  his  eyes  were  less  bright  than  usual. 
But  his  red  hair,  growing  sandy  with  grey,  was 
brushed  smoothly  back,  and  his  evening  dress  was 
unruffled.  He  and  Griggs  were  so  evidently  gen 
tlemen,  that  some  of  the  Italians  at  the  other 
tables  glanced  at  them  occasionally  in  quiet  sur 
prise,  not  that  they  should  be  there,  but  that  they 
should  remain  so  long,  and  so  constantly  renew 
their  order  for  another  bottle  of  wine. 

Giulio,  the  stout,  dark  drawer  in  a  spotless  jacket, 
moved  about  silently  and  quickly.  One  of  the 
Italians  glanced  at  Griggs  and  Dalrymple  and  then 
at  the  waiter,  who  also  glanced  at  them  quickly 
and  then  shrugged  his  shoulders  almost  percepti 
bly.  Dalrymple  saw  both  glances,  and  his  eyes 
lighted  up. 

"  I  believe  that  fellow  is  laughing  at  us, "  he  said 
to  Griggs. 

"There  is  nothing  to  laugh  at,"  answered  the 
latter,  unmoved.  "  But  of  course,  if  you  think  so, 
throw  him  downstairs." 

Dalrymple  laughed  drily. 

"  There  is  a  certain  calmness  about  the  sugges 
tion,  "he  said.  "It  has  a  good,  old-fashioned  ring 
to  it.  You  are  not  a  very  civilized  young  man, 
considering  your  intellectual  attainments." 


322  CAS  A   BEACCIO. 

"I  grew  up  at  sea  and  before  the  mast.  That 
may  account  for  it." 

"  You  seem  to  have  crammed  a  good  deal  into  a 
short  life,"  observed  Dalrymple.  "It  must  have 
been  a  classic  ship,  where  they  taught  Greek  and 
Latin." 

"  The  captain  used  to  call  her  his  Ship  of  Fools. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  was  rather  classic,  as  you 
say.  The  old  man  taught  us  navigation  and  Greek 
verse  by  turns  for  five  years.  He  was  a  university 
man  with  a  passion  for  literature,  but  I  never  knew 
a  better  sailor.  He  put  me  ashore  when  I  was 
seventeen  with  pretty  nearly  the  whole  of  my  five 
years'  pay  in  my  pocket,  and  he  made  me  promise 
that  I  would  go  to  college  and  stay  as  long  as  my 
money  held  out.  I  got  through  somehow,  but  I  am 
not  sure  that  I  bless  him.  He  is  afloat  still,  and  I 
write  to  him  now  and  then." 

"An  Englishman,  I  suppose?" 

"No.     An  American." 

"  What  strange  people  you  Americans  are !  "  ex 
claimed  Dalrymple,  and  he  drank  again.  "You 
take  up  a  profession,  and  you  wear  it  for  a  bit,  like 
a  coat,  and  then  change  it  for  another, "  he  added, 
setting  down  his  empty  glass. 

"Very  much  like  you  Scotch,"  answered  Griggs. 
"I  have  heard  you  say  that  you  were  a  doctor 
once." 

"  A  doctor  —  yes  —  in  a  way,  for  the  sake  of  be- 


CA8A    BBACCIO.  323 

ing  a  man  of  science,  or  believing  myself  to  be 
one.  My  family  was  opposed  to  it,"  he  continued 
thoughtfully.  "My  father  told  me  it  was  his 
sincere  belief  that  science  did  not  stand  in  need  of 
any  help  from  me.  He  said  I  was  more  likely  to 
need  the  help  of  science,  like  other  lunatics.  I 
will  not  say  that  he  was  not  right. " 

He  laughed  a  little  and  filled  his  glass. 

"  Poor  Dairy mple !  "  he  exclaimed  softly,  still 
smiling. 

Paul  Griggs  raised  his  slow  eyes  to  his  compan 
ion's  face. 

"  It  never  struck  me  that  you  were  much  to  be 
pitied,"  he  observed. 

"  No,  no.  Perhaps  not.  But  I  will  venture  to 
say  that  the  point  is  debatable,  and  could  be  argued. 
'To  be,  or  not  to  be '  is  a  question  admirably  cal 
culated  to  draw  out  the  resources  of  the  intellect 
in  argument,  if  you  are  inclined  for  that  sort  of 
diversion.  It  is  a  very  good  thing,  a  very  good 
thing  for  a  man  to  consider  and  weigh  that  ques 
tion  while  he  is  young.  Before  he  goes  to  sleep, 
you  know,  Griggs,  before  he  goes  to  sleep." 

" '  For  in  that  sleep  of  death,  what  dreams  may 
come  — '  "  Griggs  quoted,  and  stopped. 

"'  When  we  have  shuffled  off  this  mortal  coil.' 
You  do  not  know  your  Shakespeare,  young  man." 

"'  Must  give  us  pause,'  "  continued  Griggs.  "I 
was  thinking  of  the  dreams,  not  of  the  rest." 


324  CAS  A    BEACCIO. 

"Dreams?  Yes.  There  will  be  dreams  there. 
Dreams,  and  other  things  —  'this  ae  night  of  all.' 
Not  that  my  reason  admits  that  they  can  be  more 
than  dreams,  you  know,  Griggs.  Eeason  says  'to 
sleep  —  no  more.'  And  fancy  says  'perchance  to 
dream.'  Well,  well,  it  will  be  a  long  dream,  that's 
all." 

"Yes.  We  shall  be  dead  a  long  time.  Better 
drink  now."  And  Griggs  drank. 

"  'Fire  and  sleet  and  candle-light, 
And  Christ  receive  thy  soul ; '  " 

said  Dalrymple,  with  a  far-away  look  in  his  pale 
eyes.  "Do  you  know  the  Lyke-Wake  Dirge, 
Griggs?  It  is  a  grand  dirge.  Hark  to  the  swing 

of  it. 

1  This  ae  night,  this  ae  night, 

Every  night  and  all, 
Fire  and  sleet  and  candle-light, 
And  Christ  receive  thy  soul.'" 

He  repeated  the  strange  words  in  a  dull,  matter- 
of-fact  way,  with  a  Scotch  accent  rarely  perceptible 
in  his  conversation.  Griggs  listened.  He  had 
heard  the  dirge  before,  with  all  its  many  stanzas, 
and  it  had  always  had  an  odd  fascination  for  him. 
He  said  nothing. 

"It  bodes  no  good  to  be  singing  a  dirge  at  a 
betrothal,"  said  the  Scotchman,  suddenly.  "  Drink, 
man,  drink!  Drink  till  the  blue  devils  flyaway. 
Drink  — 

4  Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry,  my  love, 
Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry. ' 


'  Fire  and  sleet  and  candle-light ; 
And  Christ  receive  thy  soul." 

—  Vol.  I.,  p.  324. 


CAS  A    BBACCIO.  325 

Not  that  it  is  in  the  disposition  of  the  Italian 
inn-keeper  to  give  us  time  for  that,"  he  added 
drily.  "As  I  was  saying,  I  am  of  a  melancholic 
temper.  Xot  that  I  take  you  for  a  gay  man  your 
self,  Griggs.  Drink  a  little  more.  It  is  my  opinion 
that  a  little  more  will  produce  an  agreeable  impres 
sion  upon  you,  my  young  friend.  Drink  a  little 
more.  You  are  too  grave  for  so  very  young  a  man. 
I  should  not  wish  to  be  indiscreet,  but  I  might 
almost  take  you  for  a  man  in  love,  if  I  did  not 
know  you  better.  Were  you  ever  in  love,  Griggs?  " 

"Yes,"  answered  Griggs,  quietly.  "And  you, 
Dalrymple?  Were  you  never  in  love?" 

Dalrymple's  loosely  hung  shoulders  started  sud 
denly,  and  his  pale  blue  eyes  set  themselves  steadily 
to  look  at  Griggs.  The  red  brows  were  shaggy, 
and  there  was  a  bright  red  spot  on  each  cheek  bone. 
He  did  not  answer  his  companion's  question,  though 
his  lips  moved  once  or  twice  as  though  he  were 
about  to  speak.  They  seemed  unable  to  form  words, 
and  no  sound  came  from  them. 

His  anger  was  near,  perhaps,  and  with  another 
man  it  might  have  broken  out.  But  the  pale  and 
stony  face  opposite  him,  and  the  deep,  still  eyes, 
exercised  a  quieting  influence,  and  whatever  words 
rose  to  his  lips  were  never  spoken.  Griggs  under 
stood  that  he  had  touched  the  dead  body  of  a  great 
passion,  sacred  in  its  death  as  it  must  have  been 
overwhelming  in  its  life.  He  struck  another  sub- 


326  CAS  A    BBACC1O. 

ject  immediately,  and  pretended  not  to  have  noticed 
Dalrymple's  expression. 

"  I  like  your  queer  old  Scotch  ballads, "  he  said, 
humouring  the  man's  previous  tendency  to  quote 
poetry. 

"There's  a  lot  of  life  in  them  still,"  answered 
Dairy mple,  absently  twisting  his  empty  glass. 

Griggs  filled  it  for  him,  and  they  both  drank. 
Little  by  little  the  Italians  had  begun  to  go  away. 
Giulio,  the  fat,  white-jacketed  drawer,  sat  nodding 
in  a  corner,  and  the  light  from  the  high  la'mp 
gleamed  on  his  smooth  black  hair  as  his  head  fell 
forward. 

"  There  is  a  sincere  vitality  in  our  Scotch  poets, " 
said  Dalrymple,  as  though  not  satisfied  with  the 
short  answer  he  had  given.  "There  is  a  very  nota 
ble  power  of  active  living  exhibited  in  their  some 
what  irregular  versification,  and  in  the  concatena 
tion  of  their  ratiocinations  regarding  the  three 
principal  actions  of  the  early  Scottish  life,  which 
I  take  to  have  been  birth,  stealing,  and  a  violent 
death." 

"'But  of  these  three  charity  is  the  greatest,'' 
observed  Griggs,  with  something  like  a  laugh,  for 
he  saw  that  Dalrymple  was  beginning  to  make  long 
sentences,  which  is  a  bad  sign  for  a  Scotchman's 
sobriety. 

"No,"  answered  Dalrymple,  with  much  gravity. 
"  There  I  venture  —  indeed,  I  claim  the  right  —  to 


CAS  A    BRACCIO.  327 

differ  with  you.  For  the  Scotchman  is  hospitable, 
but  not  charitable.  The  process  of  the  Scotch  mind 
is  unitary,  if  you  will  allow  me  to  coin  a  word  for 
which  I  will  pay  with  my  glass." 

And  he  forthwith  fulfilled  the  obligation  in  a 
deep  draught.  Setting  down  the  tumbler,  he 
leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  looked  slowly  round 
the  room.  His  lips  moved.  Griggs  could  just 
distinguish  the  last  lines  of  another  old  ballad. 

"  '  Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries, 
And  I  am  weary  of  the  skies 
Since  —  '" 

He  broke  off  and  shook  himself  nervously,  and 
looked  at  Griggs,  as  though  wondering  whether 
the  latter  had  heard. 

"This  wine  is  good,"  he  said,  rousing  himself. 
"Let  us  have  some  more.  Giulio!  " 

The  fat  waiter  awoke  instantly  at  the  call, 
looked,  nodded,  went  out,  and  returned  immedi 
ately  with  another  bottle. 

"Is  this  the  sixth  or  the  seventh?"  asked  Dal- 
rymple,  slowly. 

"Eight  with  Signor  Eeanda's,"  answered  the 
man.  "  But  Signor  Eeanda  paid  for  his  as  he  went 
out.  You  have  therefore  seven.  It  might  be 
enough."  Giulio  smiled. 

"Bring  seven  more,  Giulio,"  said  the  Scotchman, 
gravely.  "It  will  save  you  six  journeys." 


328  CAS  A   BRACCIO. 

"Does  the  Signore  speak  in  earnest?"  asked  the 
servant,  and  he  glanced  at  Griggs,  who  was  impas 
sive  as  marble. 

"You  flatter  yourself,"  said  Dalrymple,  impres 
sively,  to  the  man,  "  if  you  imagine  that  I  would 
make  even  a  bad  joke  to  amuse  you.  Bring  seven 
bottles."  Giulio  departed. 

"That  is  a  Homeric  order,"  observed  Griggs. 

"  I  think  —  in  fact,  I  am  almost  sure  —  that  seven 
bottles  more  will  produce  an  impression  upon  one 
of  us.  But  I  have  a  decidedly  melancholic  dispo 
sition,  and  I  accustomed  myself  to  Italian  wine 
when  I  was  very  young.  Melancholy  people  can 
drink  more  than  others.  Besides,  what  does  such 
a  bottle  hold?  I  will  show  you.  A  tumbler  to 
you,  and  one  to  me.  Drink;  you  shall  see." 

He  emptied  his  glass  and  poured  the  remainder 
of  the  bottle  into  it. 

"Do  you  see?  Half  a  tumbler.  Two  and  a  half 
are  a  bottle.  Seven  bottles  are  seventeen  and  a 
half  glasses.  What  is  that  for  you  or  me  in  a  long 
evening?  My  blue  devils  are  large.  It  would 
take  an  ocean  to  float  them  all.  I  insist  upon 
going  to  bed  in  a  good  humour  to-night,  for  once, 
in  honour  of  my  daughter's  engagement.  By  the 
bye,  Griggs,  what  do  you  think  of  Reanda?  " 

"  He  is  a  first-rate  artist.    I  like  him  very  well." 

"  A  good  man,  eh  ?  Well,  well  —  from  the  point 
of  view  of  discretion,  Griggs,  I  am  doing  right. 


CAS  A   BRACCIO.  329 

But  then,  as  you  may  very  wisely  object,  discretion 
is  only  a  point  of  view.  The  important  thing  is 
the  view,  and  not  the  point.  Here  comes  Gany 
mede  with  the  seven  vials  of  wrath !  Put  them  on 
the  table,  Giulio,"  he  said,  as  the  fat  waiter  came 
noiselessly  up,  carrying  the  bottles  by  the  necks 
between  his  fingers,  three  in  one  hand  and  four  in 
the  other.  "  They  make  a  fine  show,  all  together, " 
he  observed  thoughtfully,  with  his  bony  head  a 
little  on  one  side. 

"  And  may  God  bless  you ! "  said  Giulio,  sol 
emnly.  "If  you  do  not  die  to-night,  you  will 
never  die  again." 

"I  regard  it  as  improbable  that  we  shall  die 
more  than  once,"  answered  Dalrymple.  "I  be 
lieve,"  he  said,  turning  to  Griggs,  "that  when  men 
are  drunk  they  make  mistakes  about  money.  We 
will  pay  now,  while  we  are  sober." 

Griggs  insisted  on  paying  his  share.  They  set 
tled,  and  Giulio  went  away  happy. 

The  two  strong  men  sat  opposite  to  each  other, 
under  the  high  lamp  in  the  small  room,  drinking 
on  and  on.  There  was  something  terrifying  in  the 
Scotchman's  determination  to  lose  his  senses  — 
something  grimly  horrible  in  the  younger  man's 
marble  impassiveness,  as  he  swallowed  glass  for 
glass  in  time  with  his  companion.  His  face  grew 
paler  still,  and  colder,  but  there  was  a  far-off 
gleaming  in  the  shadowy  eyes,  like  the  glimmer  of 


330  CAS  A    BRACCIO. 

a  light  over  a  lonely  plain  through  the  dark.  Dal- 
rymple's  spirits  did  not  rise,  but  he  talked  more 
and  more,  and  his  sentences  became  long  and  in 
volved,  and  sometimes  had  no  conclusion.  The 
wine  was  telling  on  him  at  last.  He' had  never 
been  so  strong  as  Griggs,  at  his  best,  and  he  was 
no  match  for  him  now.  The  younger  man's 
strangely  dual  nature  seemed  to  place  his  head 
beyond  anything  which  could  affect  his  senses. 

Dairy mple  talked  on  and  on,  rambling  from  one 
subject  to  another,  and  not  waiting  for  any  answer 
when  he  asked  a  question.  He  quoted  long  ballads 
and  long  passages  from  Shakespeare,  and  then 
turned  suddenly  off  upon  a  scientific  subject,  until 
some  word  of  his  own  suggested  another  quotation. 

Griggs  sat  quietly  in  his  seat,  drinking  as  stead 
ily,  but  paying  little  attention  now  to  what  the 
Scotchman  said.  Something  had  got  hold  of  his 
heart,  and  was  grinding  it  like  grain  between  the 
millstones,  grinding  it  to  dust  and  ashes.  He 
knew  that  he  could  not  sleep  that  night.  He  might 
as  well  drink,  for  it  could  not  hurt  him.  Nothing 
material  had  power  to  hurt  him,  it  seemed.  He 
felt  the  pain  of  longing  for  the  utterly  unattaina 
ble,  knowing  that  it  was  beyond  him  forever.  The 
widowhood  of  the  unsatisfied  is  hell,  compared 
with  the  bereavement  of  complete  possession.  He 
had  not  so  much  as  told  Gloria  that  he  had  loved 
her.  How  could  he,  being  but  one  degree  above 


CAS  A    BBACCIO.  331 

a  beggar?  The  unspoken  words  burned  furrows 
in  his  heart,  as  molten  metal  scores  smoking  chan 
nels  in  living  flesh.  Gloria  would  laugh,  if  she 
knew.  The  torture  made  his  face  white.  There 
was  the  scorn  of  himself  with  it,  because  a  mere 
child  could  hurt  him  almost  to  death,  and  that 
made  it  worse.  A  mere  child,  barely  out  of  the 
schoolroom,  petulant,  spoiled,  selfish! 

But  she  had  the  glory  of  heaven  in  her  voice, 
and  in  her  face  the  fatal  beauty  of  her  dead  mother's 
deadly  sin.  He  need  not  have  despised  himself 
for  loving  her.  Her  whole  being  appealed  to  that 
in  man  to  which  no  woman  ever  appealed  in  vain 
since  the  first  Adam  sold  heaven  to  Satan  for 
woman's  love. 

Dalrymple,  leaning  on  his  elbow,  one  hand  in 
his  streaked  beard,  the  other  grasping  his  glass, 
talked  on  and  quoted  more  and  more. 

"  '  The  flame  took  fast  upon  her  cheek, 

Took  fast  upon  her  chin, 
Took  fast  upon  her  fair  body 
Because  of  her  deadly  sin.'  " 

His  voice  dropped  to  a  hoarse  whisper  at  the 
last  words,  and  suddenly,  regardless  of  his  com 
panion,  his  hand  covered  his  eyes,  and  his  long 
fingers  strained  desperately  on  his  bony  forehead. 
Griggs  watched  him,  thinking  that  he  was  drunk 
at  last. 


332  CAS  A    BEACCIO. 

"  Because  of  her  deadly  sin,"  he  repeated  slowly, 
and  the  tone  changed.  "There  is  no  sin  in  it!" 
he  cried  suddenly,  in  a  low  voice,  that  had  a  dis 
tant,  ghostly  ring  in  it. 

He  looked  up,  and  his  eyes  were  changed,  and 
Griggs  knew  that  they  no  longer  saw  him. 

"Stiff,"  he  said  softly.  "Quite  stiff.  Dead 
two  or  three  hours,  I  daresay.  It  stands  up  on 
its  feet  beside  me  —  certainly  dead  two  or  three 
hours." 

He  nodded  wisely  to  himself  twice,  and  then 
spoke  again  in  the  same  far-off  tone,  gazing  past 
Griggs,  at  the  wall. 

"  The  clothes-basket  is  a  silly  idea.  Besides, 
I  should  lose  the  night.  Rather  carry  it  myself  — 
wrap  it  up  in  the  plaid.  She'll  never  know,  when 
she  has  it  on  her  head.  Who  cares  ?  " 

A  long  silence  followed.  One  hand  grasped  the 
empty  glass.  The  other  lay  motionless  on  the 
table.  The  blue  eyes,  with  widely  dilated  pupils, 
stared  at  the  wall,  never  blinking  nor  turning. 
But  in  the  face  there  was  the  drawn  expression  of 
a  bodily  effort.  Presently  Griggs  saw  the  fin  • 
beads  of  perspiration  on  the  great  forehead.  Then 
the  voice  spoke  again,  but  in  Italian  this  time. 

"You  had  better  look  away  while  I  go  by.  It  is 
not  a  pretty  sight.  No,"  he  continued,  changing 
to  English,  "  not  at  all  a  pretty  sight.  Stiff  as  a 
board  still." 


CAS  A    BRACCIO.  333 

The  unwinking  eyes  dilated.  The  bright  colour 
was  gone  from  the  cheek  bones. 

"It  burns  very  well,"  he  said  again  in  Italian. 
The  whole  face  quivered  and  the  hard  lips  softened 
and  kissed  the  air.  "  It  is  golden  —  I  can  see  it  in 
the  dark  —  but  I  must  cover  it,  darling.  Quick  — 
this  way.  At  last !  No  —  you  cannot  see  the  fire, 
but  it  is  burning  well,  I  am  sure.  Hold  on !  Hold 
the  pommel  of  the  saddle  with  both  hands  —  so ! " 

The  voice  ceased.  Griggs  began  to  understand. 
He  touched  Dalrymple's  sleeve,  leaning  across  the 
table. 

"  I  say ! "  he  called  softly.     "  Dalrymple ! " 

The  Scotchman  started  violently,  and  the  pupils 
of  his  eyes  contracted.  The  empty  glass  in  his 
right  hand  rattled  on  the  hard  wood.  Then  he 
smiled  vaguely  at  Griggs. 

"  By  Jove ! "  he  exclaimed  in  his  natural  voice. 
"  I  think  I  must  have  been  napping  — '  Sleep'ry 
Sim  of  the  Lamb-hill,  and  snoring  Jock  of  Suport- 
mill ! '  By  Jove,  Griggs,  we  have  got  near  the 
point  at  last.  One  bottle  left,  eh  ?  The  seventh. 

" '  Then  up  and  gat  the  seventh  o'  them, 
And  never  a  word  spake  he ; 
But  he  has  striped  his  bright  brown  brand  — ' 

The  rest  has  no   bearing  upon  the   subject,"   he 
concluded,  filling  both  glasses.     "  Griggs,"  he  said, 
-  before   he   drank,   "I  am   afraid   this   settles   the 
matter." 

VOL.   I.  —  Z 


334  CASA    BBACCIO. 

"  I  am  afraid  it  does,"  said  Griggs. 

"Yes.  I  had  hopes  a  little  while  ago,  which 
appeared  well  founded.  But  that  unfortunate 
little  nap  has  sent  me  back  to  the  starting-point. 
I  should  have  to  begin  all  over  again.  It  is  very 
late,  I  fancy.  Let  us  drink  this  last  glass  to  our 
own  two  selves,  and  then  give  it  up." 

Something  had  certainly  sobered  the  Scotchman 
again,  or  at  least  cleared  his  head,  for  he  had  not 
been  drunk  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the  word. 

"  It  cannot  be  said  that  we  have  not  given  the 
thing  a  fair  trial,"  said  Griggs,  gloomily.  "  I  shall 
certainly  not  take  the  trouble  to  try  it  again." 

Xevertheless  he  looked  at  his  companion  curi 
ously,  as  they  both  rose  to  their  feet  together. 
Dalrymple  doubled  his  long  arms  as  he  stood  up 
and  stretched  them  out. 

"It  is  curious,"  he  said.  "I  feel  as  though  I  had 
been  carrying  a  heavy  weight  in  my  arms.  I  did 
once,  for  some  distance,"  he  added  thoughtfully, 
"  and  I  remember  the  sensation." 

"  Very  odd,"  said  Griggs,  lighting  a  cigar. 

Giulio,  sitting  outside,  half  asleep,  woke  up  as  he 
heard  the  steady  tread  of  the  two  strong  men  go  by. 

"If  you  do  not  die  to-night,  you  will  never  die 
again ! "  he  said,  half  aloud,  as  he  rose  to  go  in  and 
clear  the  room  where  the  guests  had  been  sitting. 

• 

END    OF    VOL.    I. 


PS1455   .C26   1895 
V 


L  009  511    463  3 


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